


The Quiet Path

by Khaelis



Category: Broadchurch, Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Anger Management, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Breaking Up & Making Up, Crimes & Criminals, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Investigations, Mystery, POV Third Person, Police Officer Rose Tyler, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Shameless Smut, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2019-08-06 12:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 108,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16388045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaelis/pseuds/Khaelis
Summary: He thinks life is too slow, too quiet. Not much he can do about it, though.Until she moves into town. It seems she packed more than just strawberry perfume and a pretty dress in her luggage.Well. Maybe a slow and quiet life wasn't that bad, in the end.Better than a life in Hell, that's for sure.





	1. Breaking In

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear readers!
> 
> Welcome to this Hardy x Rose story!  
> It's full of angst, fluff, investigation and mystery - it's like a thriller sprinkled with romance.  
> I have no idea how long it's going to be - longer than originally planned, that's for sure - but it's updated as regularly as possible.
> 
> /Please be mindful of the tags and triggers/
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I like writing it!  
> Thank you for stopping by, let me know what you think!

* * *

 

 

Things have been quiet for a while. Too quiet, probably. Part of him knows it’s wrong, but he finds himself watching those news about a triple homicide in London, and he wishes for a second the same could happen in this slow,  _ quiet  _ town. Get something to bite his teeth into, alleviate his hunger, feed his starving need to do what he’s meant to do. He’s a detective inspector, for God’s sake. Or so the golden sign on his desperately bare and empty desk says. 

 

There hasn’t been much inspecting to do for the past few months, even less detecting. A few speeding tickets, a few disputes between neighbours. Public drinking, twice, prostitution, once. Cases he would have gladly let others take care of, if he had anything better to do. But he never has anything better to do. So he jumps on every occasion to get his hands and his head busy, just so he doesn’t have to brood alone in his office, with his tiny television and his thoughts.

 

He’s made sure every call to the station are redirected to his office. It doesn’t ring often. Sparse occasions, half of them being that mad old lady living in that farm a few miles away in the countryside - no matter how many times he tells her no one wants to steal her bloody chickens, she keeps calling. Still, at least he’s sure he’ll be the first to know if something tragic happens.  _ Oh, how much he wishes for something tragic to happen. _

 

The national news turn to the local ones on his television, and it seems the rest of the county isn’t much luckier. He snorts at his screen and rubs his eyes with a thumb and an index under his finger-stained glasses. The bloody annual salmon festival, now, that’s tragic. Not as tragic as the inauguration of the Devonian darts club, he supposes.

 

He turns off his television, not brave enough to listen to the grandpa explaining the different types of dart wings, leans back in his chair with a sigh. He knows he should do it. Work on his cover letter, update his CV, fill all those forms so he can ask for a transfer somewhere he would actually be needed. He has more than enough time on his hands. He just hasn’t got the motivation. He hates paperwork, and staring at his phone for hours on end sounds much more appealing to him than borrowing twenty minute off his free time to write stuff no one would bother read anyway. 

 

That’s the real tragedy, he believes. The less he has to do, the less he wants to do. He’s getting lazy. Idle.  _ Old _ . Sometimes he imagines himself, ten or twenty years in the future. An imagination built on terrible detective movies and popular beliefs that coppers always turn to fat wrinkled tossers eating donuts.  _ God bless America _ , he thinks with a half-grin. But as far as he knows, he can’t get fat, already has too many wrinkles for his age, and not only he doesn’t like donuts, he also can’t eat them anymore. He’s almost disappointed he can’t turn into that icon of pop culture. 

 

Still, he’s a tosser. Or so people keep telling him - and that’s a fact he’s prone to believe.  Resentment and anger, that’s what he’s made of. And he knows that when he’s old enough, with half his sanity gone and not enough heart left to care about people’s emotions, he’ll be the kind of unpleasant old fart laughing at funerals until his time comes. Unless he dies of boredom first, of course.

 

His fingers drum the edge of his desk, an annoyed puff comes out of his mouth to break the silence weighing on his slumped shoulders. He prays for something to happen. Murder, robbery, traffic accident, just about anything that can get him out of this office that’s beginning to feel like a prison. Hell, he’s ready to call the mad old lady to ask her what he knows to be a fictitious chicken thief looks like and go investigate her coop.

 

His prayers are answered. Finally. He picks up the phone after the first ring, and feels almost delighted to hear a hurried and stressed voice on the other end of the line.

  
  


“DI Hardy, Broadchurch police station,” he states, reaching for a notepad and a pen should he need to write anything down.

“Yes, you should come, quickly, there’s been a break in and she’s still inside,” the woman whispers - and he grins at her tone, because he’s always enjoyed people who think they’re on some kind of secret mission to denounce an offence.

“How do you know she broke in? You’ve seen it?” he asks, because he doesn’t trust people and has learned the hard way not to act on a simple allegation. 

“She used a bloody hairpin to pick the lock, and now she keeps getting in and out with boxes. I think she’s stealing stuff. Come on, just come, before she goes away.”

“Where is that?”

“You know the old house that’s just down the road to the west cliff? Blue walls and red windows?”

“Right,” he groans, knowing full well the house she was talking about for driving past it twice everyday. “So, you mean to tell me a woman is currently robbing a rotten house that’s been abandoned for a few decades?”

“Well, she is. Now come on, you’re the police or what? Do something!”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’m gonna transfer you to the complaint desk so they can take your name and address, don’t hang up. Thanks for your call.”

  
  


Well. That’s not really the tragedy he’s been hoping for. Still, he’s not about to deny himself the opportunity to get out of his cramped office and breathe in some fresh air. He shoves his badge in his pocket, puts his glasses back in their case, shrugs his too large jacket over his shoulders, and grabs the car keys. Not that he’s been officially cleared to drive, but he knows no one would ever dare point that out to him. 

 

It’s not a long ride anyway. The streets are clear - middle of the day, people at work, kids at school. It almost looks like a ghost town, and he breathes out loudly in defeat. No wonder this town has one of the lowest crime rates in the whole country. There can’t be crimes without people. He hopes the woman really is robbing the house. He hopes, but deep down he knows she isn’t. No one would rob an empty, decrepit house that threatens to collapse every time a car drives past it.

 

He spots it in the distance. The dark blue wooden walls, paint scraped off everywhere, the red windows, the white picket fence. He’s not paid much attention to it until now - it’s never been a house to him, merely a still-life element of the landscape that stood out like a sore thumb on the smooth edge of the cliff. He can’t be sure, but he thinks this house hasn’t been lived in for at least fifty years. Obviously, the blond woman he sees going in with a large cardbox that seems too heavy is about to remedy that. 

 

He parks his car along the picket fence, walks to her white car that looks as old as the house - he might want to ask her if it’s passed its last MOT - and he waits for her. He leans against the car, but the suspensions squeak in protest and he hurries to stand straight. He winces internally when she appears at the doorstep and eyes him with a smirk.

  
  


“It’s seen worse, don’t worry,” she chuckles, striding towards him with an extended hand and so much smile he wonders if her cheeks are hurting. “You are?”

“DI Hardy,” he answers without smiling back - he is a cop on a case of breaking-in and robbery, after all. “A witness saw you break into that house. Can you clear that up for me?”

“Break-in? Are you serious?”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” he raises that left eyebrow that always moves on its own, for whatever reason. “Breaking-in is a serious offence, so unless you can tell me what happened, I’ll have to arrest you.”

“I’m not breaking in, I’m  _ moving  _ in,” she says, rolling her eyes at him - and he knows she is, because he’s a good detective, and who would even break in that hovel, but he still has to ask. “Bought this house for a pittance a month ago, it’s mine. I had to lockpick the door, because the estate agent didn’t even have the keys, and I’d rather the door stayed closed tonight ‘cause I don’t want to actually be robbed, thanks very much.”

“Do you have any proof of ownership?” he asks, flipping his pocketbook open to pretend he’s taking notes - he’s actually scribbling nonsense to keep his head down and hide his rather uncivil grin.

“Do you have a badge?” she retorts as she crosses her arms above her chest.

  
  


Well, that must be the first time in over three years someone asks for his credentials. Everyone knows who he is in this town, and while he wouldn’t say he has a good reputation around, he still has a reputation. He doesn’t know why, but it’s refreshing to meet someone who still doesn’t know who he is. He flashes his ID, and unlike most, she actually takes her time to read the few lines and compare the photograph to his face. 

  
  


“Detective Inspector, are you?” she snorts as she reaches inside her pocket to take out her wallet. “Wonder what you did wrong to end up in this mousehoule. Come in, I’ll get you the paperwork.”

  
  


He takes the licence she hands him, follows into her steps while he learns her name and her age.  _ Rose Tyler _ . A rather uncommon name in this county - if her number plate is any indication, she’s from London, this explains that.  _ Twenty-six _ . He believes she looks older, but this might have to do with the fact that she’s strong-headed and very mature for her age - and maybe  _ too  _ perceptive. What’s a London girl in her twenties doing in Broadchurch? Buying a house, no less, settling down in an old, shabby beach chalet, in a town with no perspective of employment whatsoever, no fun to be had, no interesting people to meet? She must be mad, he thinks. He can only hope she’s not planning on setting up a coop with chickens in her garden.

  
  


“I’d offer some tea, but the water from the tap isn’t clean enough yet,” she tells him before she disappears in the small living-room, only to reappear with a binder. “Don’t want to add attempted murder to the list of charges.”

  
  


Against all odds, he realizes he’s now returning her smile. Not a smile, per se, because he forgot how to properly smile a long time ago, but a tight stir of his lips that feels almost painful. Those are muscles he rarely uses anymore, and he has a feeling his whole face will be sore for the hours to come.

 

He takes the binder from her hands, doesn’t really make any effort to check the papers because he just knows everything is in order, and lets his eyes roam around the room. It really is old. Old wallpaper with hideous big flowers that’s been ripped off in some places, old roof lining with carvings of more flowers, old chandeliers with dusty plastic diamonds, old floor that creaked under their steps. It looks as if everything is falling apart, and he’s almost concerned she’ll have to spend the night alone under that precarious roof.

  
  


“You don’t happen to have a super detective toolbox in that car of yours, do you?” she asks - he doesn’t know if it’s a joke, a taunt, or a real question.

“Depends on the kind of tools you need,” he shrugs, watching as she rummages through a box and takes out a brand new lock.

“Screwdriver. I need to change the lock before someone breaks in for real, you know.”

“Who d’you think I am, Inspector Gadget or something?”

“Fine, I’ll just go to that DIY shop I saw in town,” she sighs, gathering her blond hair into her fist to twirl them into a loose bun. “You’re not very helpful, Detective Hardy.”

“Oi, I came to investigate a possible felony, not play Bob the Builder, Miss Tyler.”

“Who would have guessed your TV channel of choice was CBBC,” she teases with a wide grin - he suddenly wishes he didn’t babysit Miller’s kids as often as he does.

“The shop will be closed by now,” he points out rather than answering her provocation. “I could come by after work to lend you one, if you want. I wouldn’t want to get an injunction for failure to provide assistance, and it’s not like I have anything better to do anyway.”

“Slow day, isn’t it?”

“You’ll find everyday in this town is a slow day, Miss Tyler. Six thirty alright?”

“That’d be nice, yeah. Thanks, Detective Hardy. Now if you’re not planning on arresting me… Not that I’m kicking you out, but I really need to unpack if I don’t want to sleep in my car tonight.”

“Right, of course,” he nods, taking in the dozens of boxes littered around the worn floor and feeling just a spark of sympathy. “I’ll see you later. Good luck with that. And welcome.”

“Yea, thanks. See ya.”

 

* * *

 


	2. Welcome to Shitetown

* * *

 

 

She’s never been a suspect, he knows that. She’s new in town, for reasons yet unknown, because what kind of sane young woman would move into a town where the most exciting event of the year is a bloody school fair. But she’s new into town and, that is too rare an occurrence not to mention it, he has a feeling she could be his friend. Or, at the very least, an acquaintance that wasn’t related to work. He also knows it is very improbable that this woman will ever take a liking to the old grump he is. But this new face, he likes it. It’s a face he finds rather pretty, despite his promise to never look at any woman that way ever again. Because he knows how it works. Looking leads to talking, talking leads to sharing, and sharing can lead to something he most definitely doesn't want or need in his life. He’s going to lend her a screwdriver, offer his help should she need it, and God forbid he’s going to ogle. 

 

What he’s feeling regarding this new woman, it’s just the thrill of the new, not the desire for the woman. He doesn’t see a woman. He sees someone who doesn’t know him and a chance at proving he can be a bloke just as sociable and cordial as the next. That’s it. An opportunity to show that bunch of cretins he can be a perfectly respectable man to be around.

  
  


“Look in your fucking mirror before you brake, dickhead,” he mutters under his breath when the car just before him freezes abruptly at a deserted roundabout. 

  
  


Oh yes, he can be a perfectly respectable man.

 

He simply wants to make an express trip to his house to get his toolbox, but he remembers he wants this woman to be his friend. So, he decides against the formal suit that’s too large and too shabby, anyway -  why should he care about his appearance, he doesn’t really know, it’s not like he wants to seduce her or anything. And she’s twenty-six, so even if she were to be his friend, she’d never see him as a potential sex interest. No, she’d see some kind of dad substitute who can change a fuse, unclog the sink and fix the laundry machine. Which he can, but that’s not the point.

 

He abandons his suit that increasingly looks like it’s been cut out of an old tent that's gone through too many summers - he can’t even remember if it’s supposed to actually be grey, or if it’s been black in a previous life, when he had enough corporal mass to fill the sleeves and the legs properly. Instead, he struggles to tug a pair of tight jeans up to his hips, unknots his burgundy tie, and slips a dark blue jumper over his white shirt. Casual, not too much, comfortable, not too much, mature, not too much. Good outfit to tell her,  _ I want to be your friend and I’m respectable, I’m only forty-three and I’m still fit, by the way _ . Maybe not that last part.

 

When he parks along the white picket fence for the second time that day, she’s already waiting for him at the front door. It’s not a strain on his detective skills to notice she has changed her outfit too. He’s rather bothered to see her jeans and sweatshirt have morphed into a tight-fitting dress, and his promise not to look becomes a distant memory, a joke that can’t even draw a smile on his lips. Of course, he’s looking. Women her age and her beauty are rare in Broadchurch, and the few he can think of either do a rosary every night and pray for his death, or happen to be harpies he avoids at all cost. It’s been a long time since he’s seen that much of a woman, and he’s a simple man. So, he looks. And, well, because he’s already looking, might as well start with the talking. 

  
  


“Phillips or flat?” he asks as a greeting, offering his screwdrivers in the palm of his hand.

“Both,” she smiles, taking a step to the side to let him in. “Thanks for coming, Detective Hardy.”

“Like I said, not much to do when I’m done working,” he shrugs with a grin - and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose to examine the lock on the door. “This shouldn’t take long. Do you want me to do it?”

“Can’t say I’d mind. I can only pay you with wine and Chinese takeaway, though.”

“What do I look like, a prostitute?” he growls, then instantly regrets his gruff sarcasm he only meant to be a playful barb. 

  
  


It appears he’s going to need a bit of practice before he can modulate his voice to his heart's desires. What he’s sure he won’t ever sound like, it’s apologizing, so instead of correcting his rude remark he simply starts unscrewing the lock. He’s only half-way through the first screw when he feels the air shift around him, and a sudden bubble of heat wrap around him. She’s bending over his back to look at what he’s doing. And it seems she’s not the kind of woman to let anyone, much less the tosser he is, step on her toes.

  
  


“If you were a prostitute,” she starts, and while he’s lost any kind of talent at deciphering a woman’s voice, he can’t help thinking it’s sultry. “I’d suggest you move to Soho. Hot copper bastard in tight jeans? You’d make a mint.”

“D’you even know what copper means, Miss Tyler?” he retorts - he tries hard not to dwell on the fact that she’s called him  _ hot _ , so he must have sent a right, or wrong, message at some point. “I could have you arrested for contempt.”

“That’s twice you’ve threatened to arrest me today, Detective Hardy,” she says with a barely concealed outrageous smile. “I didn’t take you for the  _ all talk  _ kind of bloke.”

“‘M not. That’s the longest conversation I’ve had in months, and now I’m remembering why I don’t do conversations. Don’t you have anything better to do than nag me? I won’t be long.”

“Well, are you staying over for dinner or not? I meant it, I got the wine ready and ordered Chinese for two. You’re the first person I meet, unfortunate I know, but I thought this might be a good opportunity to learn more about you and the town. I’ll even let you interrogate me, tit for tat and all, if that’s a trick good enough to get you talking.”

“Fair warning, I’ll have more questions than answers,” he shrugs as he removes the old lock and starts to fixate the brand new one.

  
  


It doesn’t take more than ten minutes to have the lock properly screwed, and not much longer before he’s sitting in a sofa that belongs in another century. He would have expected the living-room to reek of dust and rot, but he can only smell chicken noodles above a faint saline breeze that bleeds through the open window. As old as he is, he has never really enjoyed old houses, old furniture, old decors - which are, quite to his discomfort, the main characteristics of this hovel. But then, there’s Rose. It makes the unease much easier to endure. The wine does, too, and he not unwisely decides to slow down half-way through his second glass. The buzz in his veins is going to be more than enough to loosen his tongue, he knows that. He’ll have to be very careful what he says, where he looks, what he asks, because he’s a tosser and he doesn’t want to ruin his chance to prove he can be respectable. 

 

But it seems Rose has made it her personal crusade to put his resolve and lack of social skills to the test, and the very notion of respectability begins to lose its meaning - like a word he would have repeated, over and over again, until it became a string of incoherent letters he can’t pronounce. And she’s doing it on purpose, the minx. Could that mean she wants to be his  _ friend _ , too? He’s not sure he wants that, anymore. It doesn’t sound like the best of ideas, to want to strike a very adult  _ friendship  _ with a woman who’s just arrived. His reputation is bad enough as it is. Better to be her friend than her  _ friend _ .

 

He wants to tell her he’s going to arrest her for indecent behaviour, but he doubts licking her plump lips and moaning low in her throat are serious enough charges to handcuff her. It’s ostentatious, it makes him oddly appreciative of the fact she’s more beautiful than he first thought, it makes him painfully aware he hasn’t shagged in forever, but these are no reasons to take her into custody. 

  
  


“Why did you move to Shitetown, Boreland, then?” he asks, redirecting his eyes to his glass of wine, away from her cleavage - his glass was fuller a minute ago, wasn’t it?

“Work,” she answers this simple word, with a simple smile and a simple touch of her finger on his thigh - she has done this on purpose, hasn’t she? “Career opportunity I had to seize. I’d ask the same, but I won’t lie to you, Detective Hardy. I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh, great, that’s just great,” he mutters under his breath, swallowing the last of his wine in one large gulp - it doesn’t matter if he’s tipsy now that he knows she already knows he’s a tosser and a looser, does it? “Well, go on, say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you just wanted to meet the freak, that you were hoping I’d share some juicy details about the whole fuck-up the bloody Sandbrook case was. You’re a fucking journalist aren’t you? D’you want to tear what’s left of my shite career apart just so yours can take flight? Well piss off, vixen, you can shove your bloody article up your arse, ‘cause I won’t...”

  
  


He hasn’t been this angry and disappointed in someone for a very long time, but his mouth and tongue obviously remember how to translate that into words. Until she slaps her palm over his mouth to stop his injurious rant and slowly shakes her head with some kind of incredulous expression etched into her features.

  
  


“I’m not a journalist,” she says above his annoyed mumbles, shifting closer to him so they can sit on the same cushion. “It might have boosted your ginormous ego to tell you I moved to Shitetown just to meet you, but I didn’t. I don’t care about your story, take a breather and pour yourself another glass, Detective.”

“Why am I here then?” he asks with a shrug after a hard sigh, his mouth freed from the tight press of her hand.

“You’re the one who decided to stay,” she smiles - it’s a rather wicked smile, he thinks, and he suddenly realizes she’s far from oblivious to the glances he keeps stealing at her cleavage. “You’re not into small talk, or even  _ talking  _ for that matter, I’ve figured as much. So, why are  _ you  _ here?”

  
  


He shouldn’t have drunk so much wine, because all he can hear in that question is an invitation to shag, and the alcohol-induced warmth spreading through his body feels rather appropriate for such activities. His thoughts are still clear, clear enough to see she really is sexy, clear enough to understand what her grin and her hand on his knee mean, clear enough to interpret the tension crackling between them as a mutual desire to fuck on the couch. Also, clear enough to remember it would be a bad, very bad idea to give in the temptation. 

 

He just wants to be her friend. Then again, he supposes there must be a reason for friends with benefits. It happens. But if the people in town came to the knowledge that he’s shared benefits with the sexy blonde on her first night in town, what little good reputation he has left will blow up into confettis.

 

She licks her lips with no other intent than help him make up his mind. It’s not an invitation, anymore, it’s a supplication that sends immoral feelings spiraling down his loins. He wants her. He wants to give her what she’s begging of him. He needs a good shag if he doesn’t want to end up jerking off in angst, in his cold bed, alone.

  
  


“Thanks for the wine and the noodles, Rose, Miss Tyler,” he offers hurriedly as he rises from the couch, then strides to his toolbox, stuffs his screwdrivers back inside. “Pleasure to meet you. If you need anything, call the station, I’ll be the one answering. Good night.”

“Wait, Detective, haven’t you drunk too much to drive?” she asks - and God he hates to admit she’s right, and he hates to hear the sincere concern in her voice.

“I’ll walk,” he answers before he can fully weigh the pros and cons of hesitation.

“It’s a long walk, isn’t it? And it’s dark out there, I wouldn’t want something to happen to you,” she insists - and God he hates to admit she’s right, and he hates to feel his firm resolve to walk away from her crumble.

“I’ve done it before and I’m not a helpless little girl, thank you Miss Tyler.”

“Right, ‘kay. You forgot something, though.”

  
  


At that, he pats his pockets to make sure he still has his phone, his wallet, his keys, and when he realizes nothing’s missing he turns on his feet with a frown. She’s here. Standing right in front of him, and God he hates to notice for the hundredth time in less than two hours how beautiful she is. He manages to master his bloody male hormones and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

 

She stands on her toes, finds her balance with her hands splayed tight against his chest, and presses a kiss close to his mouth. It’s just a goodnight kiss, friendly, chaste, not withholding any message that could indicate she wants it to mean more than just a goodnight. But then she does it again. And again. And he answers with a kiss of his own at the corner of her lips. His hand moves on its own, finds its way to her hip, nails scraping the black silk of the ribbon keeping her dress together.

 

He takes a tiny step forward to get closer, and that’s enough to shift the angle of his face, the slant of his mouth. Their lips meet, hot, not as wet as he’d like them to be, and his weak resolve dies when her breathy moan rolls on his chin, gives life to his desire. 

 

His toolbox drops to the ground, opens, a clatter of tools rolling on the wood and bouncing at their feet. Two hands. He needs his two hands, one to hug her waist, the other to twine in the blond locks at the base of her neck. He forgets he should probably go home before he steps over the threshold that separates him from disastrous reputation and eternal regret. Instead, he pushes her against the wall, moulds his strong chest against her heaving breasts, slips a thigh between her legs, and claims her mouth in a deep, messy kiss. 

 

She tugs his hair, groans into his mouth between pants, clutches his arse to pull him close. His crotch meets her pelvis and he understands he’s already hard. He understands they’re too far gone. They’ve been too far gone since he came through her door.

 

_ Fuck _ , is his last coherent thought before she moans his name.

 

 

* * *

 


	3. Fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: NSFW

* * *

 

 

“Alec.”

  
  


It’s been a long time since someone said his first name. It’s been even longer since a woman moaned it against his lips, so long he doesn’t remember when the last time was. He’s never quite liked this name. Too short, too rough, and probably too ironic.  _ Defender of mankind _ , it’s supposed to mean. The irony lies in the fact that, more often than not, he doesn’t defend anyone. He elucidates murders, yes, and he brings comfort to victims, in a way. But he can only act after the deeds are done, and that’s when he’s given the means to do his job properly. He doesn’t defend, because he’s always too late on the battlefield. He’s not a knight in a shiny armor, he’s an undertaker that picks up the corpses and the wounded after the war of life. He doesn’t like this name.

 

But Rose, she’s teaching him how it can sound like and he’s starting to reconsider his opinion. When the vowels drag in the back of her throat, when the consonants roll on her tongue, it has no symbolic meaning that can remind him of the satire his whole life is. It only means pleasure, satisfaction, gratification. It means sex. Glorious, mind-blowing sex.

 

He’d like to hear his name with that voice a thousand different ways. A murmur, a whisper, a sigh, when he’ll touch her with his fingers, caress her body with tender hands, fondle her breasts with gentle palms, rub her clit with the soft pad of his thumb. A growl, a cry, a scream, when he’ll pinch her nipples with bold fingers, fuck her hard and bite into the delicious skin of her shoulder, suck her clit into his mouth to press the hard tip of his tongue right there, until she thrashes against his face and comes, wild and delirious, around his fingers. 

 

He wants to hear them all tonight. He can, because he’s never been a selfish lover and he knows his stupid pride won’t survive if he leaves her unsatisfied. He will, because he knows they have the whole night ahead of them, and he needs to focus his attention on her if he doesn’t want to come embarrassingly quickly, anyway. 

 

His growl rumbles low in his chest when she tugs on his hair, rakes her nails on his neck, digs her thumbs behind his ears. He has half a mind to do the same to her, but that would mean their lips would be further apart, and he can’t wish for that to happen. He catches one of her brazen hands and pins it against the wall, just as his tongue invades her hot mouth to dance with her own, teeth clacking and hurried breaths fusing into a lustful melody. 

 

She seems awfully responsive to his touches, and the gasp she swallows when he cups her breast through the dress only confirms it. He grins against her cheek, grazes her cheekbone with his teeth, runs his thumb in tight circles over her breast, hard enough to feel her nipple tighten under the tick fabric of her dress. 

  
  


“No bra,” he comments, voice laced with desire and heavy with want.

“Thin lace,” she corrects between gulps of air, throwing her head back to give his mouth access to her neck. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

  
  


He pulls her away from the wall so he can reach behind her back and find the zip. He takes a second to appreciate how she looks in that dress. He’s always enjoyed women in such clothes, and he likes it even better now. There’s a certain appeal to watch her chest rise and fall under her pants he has caused, to see the flush of her sternum, the goosebumps on her skin, the swell of her breasts, magnificently underlined by the tight clutch of the dress. He likes the naked forms of a woman, and he’s quite sure her subtle curves and delicate shapes will look as beautiful as what he’s already seeing. But what he likes the most is that moment, before he undresses her. When he can let his imagination go rampant, picture to the last detail of her body, when he’s not yet lost in the rush of sounds and movements that will inevitably consume his thoughts.

 

There’s something unfathomable about taking clothes off a woman. It doesn’t matter if it leads to fucking, shagging or making love. It always takes trust, it takes guts. He’s awed Rose Tyler trusts him enough to allow his fingers to tug on the zipper, delighted by the shivers that makes her creamy skin ripple as he carefully, slowly slips the straps of her dress down her shoulders. He’s bloody excited she’s gone through the effort of picking up underwear for him, bloody thrilled by the realization she wanted this to happen.

 

The dress pools at her waist, only held by the ribbon, and a feral groan rises in his throat.

  
  


“Love it,” he breathes out, staring at her round breasts, loose in nets of lace that don’t leave much to his imagination. “Can I?”

“Please, Alec,” she says through a shuddering exhale.

  
  


She doesn’t need to beg twice. His stubbled chin leaves a reddened track down her bare sternum, the perfume she must have sprayed there fills his nostrils and sticks to his throat, tangy and delicious. He’s missed the smell of a woman, he’s missed soft skin and delicate flesh, but he knows he doesn’t deserve to enjoy it. What they’re sharing, in that moment, it’s just sex, and he can’t let his feelings get in the way.

 

His mouth engulfs her left breast, the flat of his tongue laps at the nipple he feels tightening, until the lace is soaked and her nails scratch his scalp. She encourages him with moans and sighs that fan his own arousal and make his jeans impossibly tighter. That’s why he never wanks. He needs the sounds, he needs the heat, he needs the presence, real and solid, of another body.

 

He doesn’t really know how it happens. It takes a blink, and suddenly they’re snogging, uncoordinated and wet and messy, hands groping whatever body parts that haven’t been touched yet. They’re half walking, half tumbling towards a door at the end of the corridor, only stopping when their legs loose track of which should flex first. A statue shatters at their feet when they crash into some kind of old pedestal table, a painting tears when they slam against the wall. It’s violent, hurried, an escalation of sensations his brain can’t process. It’s not the kind of shag he usually wants, but right now it’s definitely the kind of shag he needs.

 

He’s lost, and he suddenly doesn’t care if it’ll be over in five minutes, because she unbuttons his jeans and nimble fingers stroke his hard length, and God, nothing he can do or say will help him last much longer. He has to stop kissing her, to take off his shoes, his socks, his jumper, he swears at those tight jeans he struggles to shove down his legs, curses at the too many buttons on his shirt. Of course, she’s faster than he is, and fire spreads over his face at the sight of her luscious, naked body, sprawled on the bed.

  
  


“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he grunts - and sod the last buttons, he pulls hard on the hems of his shirt, little plastic pucks pattering on the floor.

  
  


It’s a race between his instincts and his movements, and the last wins, his hands pulling down on his boxers before he can properly think on what her reaction might be. He stands there, naked, a peek down his torso confirms he’s hard, harder than he’s been in years, vein pulsing and head glistening. He didn’t think he would need her approval, until she blows a heavy moan through her parted lips as she stares at his length. 

  
  


“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” she parrots, trailing her eyes all over his lean and tall body, hooking on his erection at each pass.

  
  


He’s not sure she means it, but he’s not about to refuse a compliment from the Goddess who’s spreading her legs before him. He gives his length a tentative pull as he feasts on the sight of her taut body, wet folds and erect nipples atop smooth hills of pale flesh. He’s going to shag her. He’s going to take her, replace his hand with her heat, and that thought alone is enough for more precum to leak from his painful cock.

  
  


“Condom,” he seethes between clenched teeth as he falls onto the bed, onto her, his eyes fluttering shut at the sudden contact of their naked bodies.

“Drawer,” she moans - and it takes to the last thread of his willpower not to fuck her right then and there, when she lifts her hips just so, his cock sliding between her folds. “Hurry, Alec.”

  
  


He curses once more, rolls to the side and blindly reaches into the half-open drawer. She doesn’t make it easy, with her tongue on his nipple, a set of fingers dipped into his mouth so he can suck on the them, another at the juncture of his leg. His fingertips finally meets the foiled square and he’s quick to tear it open with shaky hands and slide the latex down his erection. 

  
  


“You want this?” he feels compelled to ask despite her obvious desire - it might be because he cares a little, or because he wants to tease, or because it gives him a few seconds of respite to tame his own raging desire. “My cock, do you want it? Do you want to be sore tomorrow, to hurt each step you take and remember how good I fucked you? So hard, so deep I’m gonna touch places you didn’t know could make you scream?”

“I like it better when you don’t do conversations, Alec,” she groans, clutching his broad back with desperate fingers. “Shut up and fuck me.”

  
  


He does. He hooks her arms beind her knees to lift them up to her shoulders, folds over her, sheathes himself, hard and fast into her. He curses, again, groans, grunts, tries to drown all those shameful sounds in a kiss. His tongue has grown lazy, much like hers, but what strength he lacks to properly make her lips swollen and red, he compensates with powerful thrusts of his hips. She’s hot, tight, fucking gorgeous, and he’s shagging her. He won’t last. It’s been too long.

 

So, he grinds his pelvis hard at each slam of his slender hips to tease her clit, leans on an elbow to pinch her nipples, fondle her breasts, sucks the flesh at the juncture of her neck, rakes his teeth on the tendon straining under her skin. He’s given up on the hope she’s going to come before him, he can only hope she’s going to fall with him.

  
  


“Tell me you’re close,” he barks over the quick and loud slap of skin against skin, over the obscene wet sounds they make. “Fuck, fuck, tell me you’re close.”

“Yes, yes, fuck yes,” she keens, a mantra she etches into the skin of his back with her sharp nails as he rides the torrent of pleasure that’s swirling in his loins. “Harder, Alec, fuck me harder.”

  
  


A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and thank fuck for the pacemaker because his  heart stammers over its erratic beating, and this sexy vixen wants to kill him. He rises on his knees, grabs one of her thighs he lifts up against his torso, and thank fuck for her agility because she wraps her other leg around his shoulders and that gives him more than enough leverage to thrust harder, deeper.

 

He squeezes her flesh between his fingers, which part of her body he doesn’t know, just whatever skin and muscle he can hold on to to give his ramming more momentum. It’s just a shag, he knows he shouldn’t leave his mark on her body. But he sees the purple patch, still glistening with his saliva, still swollen, just at the juncture of her neck, and his foolish pride is too big to let regret or guilt settle down in his stomach.

 

There it is. The burn at the base of his spine, the fire in his loins. Hurriedly, he sticks his thumb into her mouth to gather moisture and brings it down to her clit to rub fast, tight circles and hasten her release. She does something he doesn’t expect.

 

She reaches out with a hand and tenderly cups his face, eyes full of lust, overflooded with raw passion and crude desire.

  
  


“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” she repeats for the second time - and this time, it’s clear as daylight she means it.

“Jesus fuck, oh, f…”

  
  


He can’t finish the little his brain has conjured up to put words on the tornado that sweeps through him. His mouth hangs wide open in a silent shout that’s only broken by gulps of air that don’t quite reach his lungs. His hips can’t seem to stop moving despite his orgasm that turns off all his perceptions, save the feeling of his hard cock still driving into her and his semen pooling in the condom. Long seconds, almost painfully too long, and then she comes around him and keep him there for even longer, and the macho tosser he his grits his teeth and counts how many times her muscles contract around his length. He counts, and watches as she writhes under him, moans his name between meaningless groans, clenches her fingers around the sheet and digs her toes into his arse. 

 

_ Eight _ . He lets her legs go, slips out of her and frees his softening length from the condom before he makes a mess. He plops down next to her, ties the latex and carefully puts it down on the bedside table.

  
  


“Souvenir,” he grins before he captures her lips in a soft kiss that had nothing to do with their previous snogs. “Alright, lass?”

“You have no idea how much I needed that,” she chuckles a little breathlessly - it seems she’s happy to stay close to him, bask in that particular post-shag bliss. “That was… Phew.”

“Well Amen to that. So, now that you’ve used me to your heart’s content, I think I’ll get going.”

  
  


He says it, but he makes no move to abide by his word. He feels oddly at peace in this bed he doesn’t know, in this house he doesn’t like. He can pretend it’s because she’s nestled against him, a finger running through his chest hair, her cheek on his shoulder. It feels oddly domestic, for a quick shag with a woman he barely knows. He can find a hundred reasons why he’s not moving, why he stays there, lying down naked on a stranger’s bed. But the truth is, he feels good. Just that. Good.

  
  


“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she mumbles against his shoulder - and he suddenly doesn’t feel as good, because he feels she doesn’t regret the shag, but the consequences. “Fuck, I’m so fucked, Hardy. We should have never done that.”

“Well I can’t  _ unshag  _ you, can I?” he sighs, pushing himself up against the headboard. “What’s the matter, you’re scared about what people are gonna say if they know you’ve shagged Hardass tosser on your first night in Shitetown? ‘S just a shag between consenting adults, you know, and it takes two to…”

“Don’t say that, ‘cause you’ll be the first to regret what happened, Hardy,” she hurries to cut through his half-hearted attempt to reassure her. “I’m serious, I’ve just… Fucked everything up. It’s going to be a bloody nightmare. A shitstorm, Hardy, I’ve just made both our lives a proper shitstorm.”

“Unless you tell me why, I can hardly see how a shag can ruin our lives,” he shrugs, thinking she might be overreacting.

  
  


He raises an eyebrow, not really anxious but not really comfortable either, as she rises from the bed and goes to the chest of drawers. He finds her glorious naked derriere just a bit distracting and he smirks smugly at the red imprints of fingers he has left on the inside of her thighs. But then, she turns around and shows him something he most definitely wasn’t ready for. A gun. 

  
  


“What the actual fuck?” he blurts out before he can stop himself - not can he stop the way his body freezes and his eyes widen in a kind of surprised dismay. “So what, you’re a felon or something? You’re a fucking felon and you decide to shag a cop? You’re one crazy bitch, let me tell you!”

“Oh, don’t be so thick, Hardy,” she rolls her eyes wearily, throwing her weapon on the bed before she takes out something else from her drawer. “Don’t you have a gun, too?”

“‘Course I have, I’m a bloody cop!” he huffs as he picks up the weapon to examine it. “I have… The same. Standard issue Glock. What the fuck is this, Tyler? Don’t tell me you’re my fucking trainee! Please don’t fucking tell me I’ll be known as the cop who shagged their trainee!”

“‘M not your trainee, Hardy.”

  
  


She throws something else to him, and he catches it against his chest. His face goes blank, loses its colour, and his eyes run over the police badge, over and over again, until the words don’t mean anything more than… Shitstorm. She was right.

  
  


“Bloody Hell,” he breathes out, hard, between sharp intakes of air. “I’ve just shagged my boss.”

 

* * *

 


	4. Fresh Start

* * *

 

“I’m sorry.”

  
  


He snorts at her quiet apology and when he’d been in a hurry to get his pants off not so long ago, now he only hurries to fetch them from the carpet and slip them back on. He can’t look at her any longer. He doesn’t want to remember how she looks without any clothes on, not when he knows he’ll soon have to look at her with the detached professionalism expected from him. 

  
  


“Just get dressed, will you,” he mutters as he gathers his clothes and makes a quick job of getting dressed himself. 

  
  


He doesn’t quite know how he feels. He would have gladly said angry, but he knows he’s always angry anyway. Angry at his life he has no control over any longer, angry at his job he doesn’t like any longer, angry at his loneliness he can’t do anything about any longer. He’s angrier than usual, maybe. And while he only met a few hours ago, while she’s a woman he doesn’t know, while no feelings were involved, he still feels betrayed. She’s one of the few, very few people he has given any trust in a long, very long time, and she has betrayed him. 

  
  


“I might have overreacted, you know,” he sees her shrug from the corner of his eye - and he’s relieved to see she is now hidden under a large sweatshirt and a pair of pyjamas pants. “I mean, it’s not that bad. If no one knows…”

“This is Broadchurch, stupid woman, everyone will know by tomorrow night,” he growls.

  
  


Oh, he’s definitely angrier than usual, he realizes, because usually he doesn’t intend for the bite of his words to snap so hard, usually he regrets it, even if a little. Not now. No regret. And the bite was intended. He would have bitten even harder if he wasn’t talking to his boss.

 

She might be right. If no one knows he was here, things might not turn as sour as the worse of his expectations. It’s quite late, half of the town is already asleep, the other half lounging in their living-room in front of the telly, so maybe he still has a chance to walk back home in the dark without being noticed.

 

He wishes that wasn’t a lie. He knows all it takes is one pair of eyes for the rumours to spread like wildfire over a town like this. He knows there will be at least one pair of eyes to spy him on his way back home. He just knows. And he can imagine all too well what these people he hates are going to think when they realize she is his boss. 

 

They all remember his failed marriage to a former colleague. Most of them remember he fucked up a case for a shag. Of course, it’s not the truth, but over the years he’s learnt people have an extraordinarily malleable memory when it comes to individuals they loathe. The townspeople don’t like him, they don’t want to like him, why and how much he doesn’t care because he doesn’t like them either. But he does know they see him as the worst cop in Britain, and they don’t want to see him as anyone or anything else. It gives them all a reason to keep avoiding him. Not that he minds, because it gives him a reason to keep pretending he’s better off alone.

 

But now, the balance that exists between their hating him and his hating them is going to tip, and not to the right side. Oh, he should have listened to reason, given her that bloody screwdriver and left while he still could. Unfortunate, what a glass of wine and a tight dress could do to his resolve. Women. Every bloody time, his life gets riddled with bullets because of women. And this one, this beautiful blonde who dragged him into her bed, naked and hard, this time, she’s the one to pull the trigger. Premeditated murder, that’s what it is. She knew who he was. She knew what it was. She knew how it would be.

  
  


“Alec…” she sighs when he tries to shove her away and get through the door.

“Detective Hardy,” he grunts, jerking his arm away from her teaching hand. “I’m not Alec to you, I’m not Alec to anyone.”

“Fine,  _ Detective Hardy _ , let’s be rational about this,” she starts as she struts behind him in the corridor. “I’m in more trouble than you are, you know. If people know, I’ll be the one they talk about, not you. I’ve just arrived here, just got the highest position in your police department, and…”

“Aye, we might want to discuss this, too,” he cuts through a bitter chuckle without any humour in his words. “Twenty-six, CDI? Piss off, Tyler, we all know this was your daddy’s doing. Hope he’s gonna be proud his darling daughter fuc…”

“My parents died when I was two,” she interrupts him, making the most of his surprise to slip between him and the wall, stand in front of him with her hands on her hips and glower at him as if she would have gladly set him on fire. “I’m here ‘cause I deserve it, no one’s ever pulled strings for me. Don’t ever suggest otherwise, Hardy.”

“No one can be promoted CDI before they hit at least forty.”

“Well, I obviously can. I just… I don’t know, do you want to talk about this over a coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Tea, then.”

“I don’t drink tea after eight.”

  
  


He doesn’t want to say he can’t drink coffee anymore because it doesn’t work well with his pacemaker, he doesn’t want to say he doesn’t even like tea that much but he does drink it because it’s the only thing he can drink without risking a heart attack. He doesn’t want to say much. He just wants to leave, sneak back home like a teenager on a forbidden nightly adventure, go to bed and forget about everything that’s happened. 

 

She doesn’t seem to understand what he wants, and just stands there, by the door, blocking his only exit route. Or maybe she does understand, but doesn’t want him to go.

  
  


“It’s two past midnight,” she tells him after a glance thrown at the old clock on the wall.

“They still teach how to read analog clocks in primary, then,” he nods with a sarcastic pout and crosses his arms over his chest. “One gold star to Tyler, well done.”

“Thank you, Hardy, but what I meant is, I’ve been your boss for two minutes. Officially.”

“So?”

“You could start by showing a bit of respect and just a bit of maturity. Look, I’m not supposed to talk about what I did before I got the position, ‘cause most of it is sensitive and classified. But… I mean, if it can convince you I’m not a spoiled brat who got promoted after graduation... “

“You’re a kid, Tyler, what you call classified, I call bedtime stories.”

  
  


He doesn’t really mean that, because he might be a tosser, but he’s a cop tosser and he knows what classified implies when it comes to police work, or any other security occupation. It means important, dangerous, meaningful, often dreadful things. It doesn’t matter that she’s twenty-six. Age doesn’t matter when it comes to classified operations. 

 

He sees the hurt in her eyes, he sees her irritation, her lassitude lined with sorrow. He understands he hasn’t been just rude, but disrespectful as well. And that’s something he profoundly regrets, no matter how angry he still is.

 

She steps away from the door, disappears into the living-room. There’s his chance to finally get away from this house and go back home before she can find another reason to hold him up against his will. He hurries to pick up the tools that escaped his toolbox when he not so inadvertently let it fall down earlier, shoves them back inside, makes the most of having one knee down on the floor to tie his laces. Just as he rises on his feet and takes a step towards the door, his ear picks up a sound. A sniff. A quiet sniff, the kind of sniffs he fears more than the sound of screams or explosions. Great. He’s made her cry. 

 

He’s a tosser, but he’s a cop tosser and he has to make sure she’s going to be okay, because right now she’s the victim of a distasteful taunt he has perpetrated. When he walks in, she’s sitting on the old couch, the vestiges of their meal gathered in a corner of the coffee table, a small wooden box standing on a square she has obviously cleaned. If she notices he’s here, she doesn’t acknowledge his presence. He walks to her, sits next to her, clears his throat, splays a hand he wants comforting but he knows must feel awkward on her thigh. And she just stares at that box. Until she picks it up and jabs him in the chest with a hard corner when she shoves it against him. 

 

He opens it and his eyes widen, his self-motivated left eyebrow shoots up high on his forehead. Medals. He can count five. Crosses, all of them. A few other tiny badges, symbols and shapes he’s never seen before. Decorations. Twenty-six, and she’s already more decorated than most servicemen at the end of a long career.

  
  


“I shut down an illegal weapon factory run by a British national in the middle of a war in Syria,” she starts with a voice that sounds much too innocent and too soft for these words. “I dismantled a Russian prostitution network in the shallows of London, and I put an end to a massive child trafficking ring across the whole of the UK. I’ve killed, I’ve punished, I’ve jailed more people in eight years than you have in your lifetime. I’ve seen dead women, mutilated men, little girls who were raped, little boys who were enslaved. What you call bedtime stories, I call horror stories that keep me awake at night. I didn’t ask to be a CDI, Hardy. I wanted to quit altogether, buy a bookshop or live a hermit in a forest, but they wouldn’t let me. I’ve seen and done too much shit, they couldn’t let me go. I’m too valuable. Their only concession was that I’d get to pick where I wanted to work. As a CDI and MI5 liaison officer.”

“And your best pick was Boreland?” he asks - he has a hundred other questions, but he not unwisely decides it best to keep them for ulterior conversations.

“It’s quiet,” she shrugs and carefully wraps the wooden box in its cloth when he hands it back. “Lowest crime rate in the country, nice location, cheap house by the sea. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, Hardy,  _ boring  _ actually has a certain appeal to it. All I want is a normal life. Simple. A pretty house, a few friends, an easy job. I moved here to get the fresh start I deserve.”

“This might be a fresh start, Tyler, but it’s not a good start,” he smirks, hoping that this time the smile in his voice won’t go unnoticed.

“How do you mean?”

  
  


He hasn’t laughed in a long time, and he’s surprised to hear the raucous note that rises in his throat and falls through his lips. It’s more of a rough cough than a laugh, if he’s honest, but at least it brings a small smile to her face.

  
  


“You’ve shagged the worst cop in Britain on your first day among the community,” he enlightens her - and he leans back in the couch, because he’s not in such a hurry to leave anymore. “They don’t even know who you are yet, and you already have a bad reputation.”

“Yeah, not my smartest move, I know,” she chuckles as she wipes the tear tracks on her cheeks with the back of her hand. “‘S just, freedom, you know? Free to be a bit bold, free to be a bit reckless. I’ve never been free, before, not that way, not as much. So yeah, I might have, er, got carried away a bit. ‘M sorry, Hardy, I really am. But… It doesn’t have to be a shitstorm, right?”

“I suppose it won’t make my life any worse,” he sighs with a resolute shrug. “If we both agree this never happened, half of the shitstorm will be dealt with. The other half, well, it’s just the gossiping, really. Nothing we can do about that. I’m used to it, so it won’t affect me as much, but you… That’s a whole different kettle of fish. It’s not easy to earn these people’s trust, and you’re not off to a good start, CDI Tyler.”

“I survived daily death threats, I can handle a bit of gossip,” she points out - and he realizes that, indeed, gossip must be very far down on her lists of preoccupations. “Unwelcoming town folks? Walk in the park, compared to fat Russian proxenets who want your head on a spike. Just… Let’s never talk about it when we’re at work, ‘kay? If my higher-ups ever get wind of this, I’ll really have to buy a bookshop.”

“Eh, I’ve only helped you change the lock, Tyler, that’s not a crime, whatever people might think.”

  
  


He waits until she throws a side look a him before he gives her a sympathetic wink, and he’s rewarded with a relieved laugh and a squeeze on his thigh. He shouldn’t let her, because she’s his boss, they’re colleagues, they’ve done enough stupid things for the rest of their joint careers. But she snuggles against him, kisses his jaw, brushes her lips close to his ear when she whispers a word of gratitude, and he lets her. She’s gone soon enough, anyway. 

  
  


“You’re a good bloke, Hardy,” she says almost quietly as she wraps her arms around her legs and falls back against a cushion. “Bit rough around the edges, I grant you that, but you’re a good bloke. Why don’t people like you?”

“I don’t want them to like me,” he simply answers, getting back up on his feet when the clock chimes half-past. “And they don’t want to like me. Call it catharsis, if you will. I’m the odd one out, it’s only natural I’m the one they go after when they need to purge their emotions.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“Penance. Broadchurch, its people, its beach, its air, its quiet, that’s penance. I’ve done my time, though. Won’t be much longer before I request a transfer and get out of this Hellhole.”

“How much longer?”

“A month, two maybe. I’ve been thinking about it ever since we closed the Latimer case, a year and half ago.”

“So you’re telling me in two month’s time I’m gonna become the black sheep of Shitetown?” she teases through a chuckle - though he hears her sudden worry and distress.

“People will like you, Tyler,” he tries to reassure her as he picks up his toolbox. “You don’t have the same background I have. Be a good cop and you’ll be fine. What time do you start?”

“Two, when Jenkinson’s contract officially ends.”

“Good, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Tyler. Don’t forget to lock the door, eh?”

  
  


He doesn’t wait for an answer and walks away before either of them can find yet another reason to linger. He only waits a few seconds behind the door, pricks his ear, hears the soft click of the lock. He half-smiles and walks to his car.

 

He knows all it’s going to take is a pair of eyes. He sighs when a van slowly drives past him.

 

* * *

 

 


	5. Chop-Chop

* * *

 

 

Things have been quiet for a while. He has stopped counting the days, because they’re all the same. Quiet, slow, desperately dull. Time has turned into an obscure concept, hours and minutes dissolving into a viscous paste that has no beginning, no end, that just glides over his life relentlessly and makes it impermeable to any kind of excitement or pleasure. Wake up at six, go to work, be bored, go back home, sleep, repeat. He feels chained to a loop, stuck in a wheel that’s going down the mountain slope until it reaches the edge of a cliff and falls off in the ocean, and there’s no stopping it. 

 

But today is different. Maybe she’s going to save him from drowning into that paste, break the shackles that ties him to the uneventfulness of his life, stop the wheel on its wild course to certain death by monotony. He hopes she will.

 

His phone has rung twice since he sat in his desk chair. 

 

The first call was the mad old lady, to tell him one of her chickens had vanished during the night, because she could only count seven when she was sure there had been an eighth when she’d gone to bed. He asked if she had closed the coop, of course she said no, and he told her he couldn’t dispatch anyone for a runaway chicken. 

 

The second one was an anonymous call to tell him a woman was illegally occupying the beach chalet on the outskirts of the town. He told him she was the new owner and that he would make sure to tell her to hang a  _ sale agreed _ sign on her picket fence to avoid any more unnecessary confusion. 

 

After that, nothing. Nothing but the tiny television on his filing cabinet, with its reeling images of all those crimes and exciting investigations he’ll never get to work on. The London police are still working on the triple homicide, the Norfolk police are tracking a serial killer, up in his Scottish motherland they’re investigating a sordid case of sexual abuse in secondary schools. And he’s sitting there, answering calls about missing chickens and perfectly legal occupation. Everyone has their cross to bear, he supposes. Shame his is a papier-mâché miniature cross that dangles from his little finger. 

 

He straightens in his chair and pretends to be typing on his keyboard when someone knocks at his door.

  
  


“Come in,” he calls out after he turns the TV off and remembers to turn his computer screen on. “Miller, what can I do for you?”

  
  


She’s the only one he dares to think of as a friend, though he’s never quite told her that. She’s clever, fierce, good at her job - and while he likes to pretend he has a good influence on her, he knows it’s actually the other way around. 

 

She walks to his desk, leans on her fingers and points her chin towards his screen.

  
  


“Have you read the email?” she asks - why she looks immensely bothered and frustrated, he doesn’t know. 

“Yes,” he lies with a nod he hopes looks convincing enough. “Why?”

“I would have expected you to throw one of your tantrums,” she shrugs, plopping down on a chair, unaware he’s trying to open his mailbox without arousing her suspicion. “Are you? Going to yell at her?”

“Why?” he repeats - because until his mailbox decides to load properly, he won’t understand.

“Come on, Hardy, everyone here knows you wanted that position, and she gives it to someone we’ve never heard of before, someone who’s got two lines on their CV? Aren’t you going to say something?”

  
  


Ah. Quite right. Rose Tyler is taking up the reins from Jenkinson today. He hasn’t forgotten, of course. He’s merely shoved that information out of his mind, a valiant enterprise to keep his thoughts focused on his work and away from her, and he’s managed just fine. Until now, that is.

  
  


“I didn’t want this position,” he simply answers as the darned mail finally pops up on his screen - he doesn’t even bother reading it, now he understands what this is all about. “You know I won’t stay much longer in Broadchurch, might as well give the job to someone who’s planning on staying. And Jenkinson must have her reasons to have picked Tyler. Young doesn’t mean inexperienced, Miller. Who knows, she might surprise us.”

  
  


He doesn’t miss how she squints at him, and there’s no mistaking the way she purses her lips. When Miller purses her lips, it means exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. Suspicion. 

  
  


“How come you know her name?” she asks, eyes reduced to two glowing slits in the shadows of a furrowed brow. “How come you know she’s young? How come you know it’s a  _ she  _ at all?”

“It’s in the email, isn’t it?” he states with a pointed look at his screen - though he knows it isn’t, knows he’s said too much and ruined the very slim chance he still had to pretend he didn’t know her.

“You bloody well know it isn’t, Hardy,” she frowns even tighter, eyebrows knitted together, knuckles growing white. “For how long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me? Did you orchestrate this, pulled strings for her when you could have pulled strings for me?”

“Hey, calm down, Miller, I have nothing to do with this, alright?”

“How do you know all this, then? Eh?”

“I met her yesterday afternoon,” he sighs - no point in trying to hide the truth, he’s been seen anyway, it’s only a matter of time before everyone in this hole knows. “She was moving in the beach chalet, you know, that small house on the cliff that runs along Bridshaw beach. I got a call, someone thought she was breaking in. Just went to investigate, we had a chat, and that’s it.”

“How’s she like?”

  
  


He doesn’t appreciate this question much, because his brain conjures up too many memories that bounce against the walls of his skull like lottery balls, and he’s scared the wrong one will roll out of his mouth. She’s too beautiful for words, he wants to say - a single image of her smile was enough to keep him up all night in drowsed amazement. She’s fierce, strong, tenacious, he might want to add - oh yes, definitely the kind of woman that never fails to draw him in. She’s soft, too - both her body under his hand and her aura around his body, a softness he finds delightful and comforting. And she’s a good shag - nothing more to add to that, because he remembers he’s not even supposed to know that.

  
  


“She’s alright, I guess,” he ends up saying before his tongue can twist and turn to create other words. “Like I said, we only had a quick chat, ‘s not like I know her. She should be here at two, we’ll know soon enough.”

“She’ll be here in ten minutes, according to the email,” Miller tells him as she pushes herself away from the desk and steps back towards the door. “The introductions to everyone are at two, but you’re not of the hoi polloi, Hardy. Jenkinson wants you in her office, one thirty. You’d know that, if you’d actually read the email. She wants you spiffed up so you might want to change your tie and brush your hair. Oh, and…”

  
  


She throws a small round box towards him and he catches it against his chest with a dubious saumsault of his independant eyebrow.

  
  


“Powder foundation? Miller?”

“Not much I can do about the bags under your eyes, but you can try to cover up those scratch marks,” she says with a half-smirk that betrays the fact she hasn’t been duped by his best impression of feigning innocence. “There, on the side of your neck. Hope the shag was worth it, Sir, because you two will make the front page of the Echo by the end of the week.”

“Miller…” he warns, unconsciously brushing his fingers over the lightly tingling patch of skin just below his ear.

“I’ve seen nothing, I know nothing. Ten minutes, Hardy, just get ready.”

  
  


He opens his mouth, to convince her those marks don’t mean what she thinks they mean, to pretend he’s probably inflicted those marks upon himself in his sleep. He closes it without a sound when he realizes it’s just a wild goose chase, and shoos her away with a wiggle of his fingers.

 

He does what he’s been told to do, trades his festive tie, his favourite, a deep burgundy with meshes that draw discreet square patterns, for a black one. He coombes his recalcitrant tuft of hair that falls on his forehead with his fingers, tries without much success to flatten the wild spike that stands on the back of his head, gives up when he understands he might be better off cutting it with a pair of sharp shears. Whatever he does to his appearance, every pair of eyes will be drawn to the catastrophe his old and rumpled suit is anyway. He should definitely buy a new one. Later, probably. Much later.

 

He ponders for a moment if he really ought to powder his neck - either they’ll all see the scratch marks or the powder stains on the collar of his white shirt, from the both of which they’ll draw similar conclusions. Just as he decides it’s pointless and buries the box of makeup among a pile of knick-knacks in his drawer, another knock echoes on his door.

 

This time, he doesn’t need to invite them in. The door immediately opens and she steps in with the kind of assurance and swagger that have taken him two whole decades to master. Alec Hardy is never dumbfounded, never caught off guard - what good is left of his reputation is at stake here, and it’ll be a cold day in Hell before he admits he is. Dumbfounded and caught off guard.  But he is.

 

He takes in her uniform, which isn’t quite one, and the sexy dress he saw her wear the night before doesn’t hold a candle to  _ that _ . Tight black trousers and black polished heels, black jacket he’s sure must be one size too small over a shirt he’s sure must have shrunk by half when she did her last laundry batch. And a tie, a thin black silk tie that splits her chest even more ostentatiously than if she’d been exposing an indecent cleavage. And a messy bun that gathers her soft blond hair - he’s always loved messy buns, and blond hair, and messy buns of blond hair in particular. Peroxided messy buns. There’s just something about them, between classy and negligent, between simple and he should stop trying to find words right now because his thoughts are straying much too far away in the wrong direction.

  
  


“The contest for next month’s Playmate centerfold is next door,” he blurts out before he can pull on that awful train of thoughts enough to redirect it to safer territories.

“Good afternoon to you, too, Detective Hardy,” she says with the face of someone who’s doing their very best not to smile but probably needs to practice some more. “Are you ready?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, er,  _ Ma’am _ ?” he stutters a bit on his hesitant words - then winces at how odd and unnatural it sounds. “Do you mind if I just call you  _ Tyler _ , Tyler?”

“It’s alright, Hardy, you’ll see I’m not one to bother with that kind of formalities. Just don’t call me Playmate and we should be fine.”

“Aye, sorry about that. You look good, though. Very… Professional. Police-wise, I mean, obviously. I see you’ve pinned a few of your medals on your jacket?”

  
  


It’s a poor attempt at changing the subject of their most definitely not professional conversation, but it seems she’s happy to grab onto the line he’s throwing. She smiles down at the row of crosses lines up on her right breast, crowned with a few pin badges, and smoothes down the few creases on her jacket.

  
  


“Yeah, Jenkinson told me it might good to wear them,” she explains, cocking her head to the side with a small smile when he reaches out to brush a thumb over one of the ribbons. “‘Cause I’m young, she thought it’d be nice to show people I did a few things before I waltzed in here.”

“Good idea. Ready to start, then?”

“I think so, yeah, I’ve got…” she nods as she pats her pocket - then her face falls, her eyes widen in horror and her fingers search each one of her pockets twice. “Shit, I forgot my paper. I changed my jacket before I left, and I forgot my bloody paper in the other one. Shit, shit shit.”

“What paper, Tyler?” he frowns at her panic - surely a  single missing piece of paper can’t grow to such dramatic proportions.

“My speech, I wrote a speech so I’ll know what to say when I have to introduce myself to these people. What am I going to say, now?”

“Dunno,  _ hello _ ?”

“This isn’t a joke, Hardy, I’m really not the kind of person to talk in front of people. I hate that… That pressure, when everyone’s looking at you and you stand there like a lemon auditioning for the most awkward bloopers of the year. I’m just not a people person. I can’t do it. I can’t talk to these people if I don’t have my bloody paper.”

“You’re talking to me, now,” he points out rather matter-of-factly, catching her anxious fingers on their sixth journey to her inside pocket.

“It’s not the same, Hardy, this is a conversation between the two of us.”

“Then when you’re there, pretend you’re having a conversation with me. Imagine what I could ask you and answer me. Tell me what you think I should know. You’re not doing a seminar, Tyler, you’re telling them you’re the boss.They’re police officers, not scholars. Keep it short, straightforward, show them who they’re dealing with, show them you can be trusted, and you’ll be fine. Alright?”

“I… Yeah, right, okay. Thanks, Hardy. Did you, uh, hear anything this morning?”

  
  


The way she anxiously, almost sheepishly bites into her lip is enough to understand the meaning behind this obscure question. He did tell her people would know, and he knows she’s scared her reputation within the station and among her colleagues is already tainted. He was angry she betrayed him, but not anymore. He was chagrined they’d have to leave it to a one-night stand, but not anymore. Now, he just feels protective of her, because he likes her, and he just wishes he could tell her no one would ever know. But he can’t.

 

He takes a short breath, almost a sniff, and brings his fingers to the knot of her tie that has gone a bit askew to straighten it.

  
  


“Miller knows,” he says with as much professional detachment he can muster - the sweet strawberry fragrance that tickles his nostrils and her shivers when his fingers brush against her sternum don’t help much. “She won’t say anything, though, you can trust her. The others don’t know yet. And when they know, they won’t say anything to your face anyway. They don’t like me, but they fear me. It won’t get much worse than quiet gossip at lunch time and a few looks at the coffee machine. Don’t make a production out of it, and they won’t either, aye? You’re their boss, Tyler, act like it and you’ll be fine.”

“What about you, Hardy?” she asks after a silent sigh of relief - he doesn’t remember the last time anyone has cared about what  _ he  _ felt, and it feels just a tad awkward. “Will you be fine?”

“I’m never fine, Tyler,” he answers with a twitch of his lips he hopes looks like a smile. “I can deal with it, don’t worry. Come on, let’s go. Jenkinson must be on pins and needles right now, she’s been nagging us for weeks with her sodding retirement.”

“Right, yes. Thanks, Hardy. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Aye, well remember you said that and think about it in a week when you’ll want to chop my head off.”

“Ah, um, can you not talk about…  _ That _ . I mean, heads chopped off. Bad memories. Thanks”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“That’s alright, Hardy. Now chop-chop, we don’t want to be late.”

  
  


He frowns at the use of the expression, but when she tucks her tongue between her teeth and show off a malicious grin, his uneasiness melts into a wave of relief. That woman is a minx, and he’ll have to be very careful around her if he doesn’t want to fall for any more of her bad jokes, or fall for her… Well, fall for her, period. 

  
  


“You did pass the psychological test, right, Tyler?” he smirks back before she can apologize for her joke that verges on outrageous.

“Yeah, ninety-nine percent. Why?”

“Should I be worried about that one percent?”

“No. Just don’t get near me when I’m handling scissors.”

  
  


God, does she really have to wink like that, and poke her tongue out like that, and trail her index on the column of his throat like that? He barely has enough time to properly process what she’s doing to him that she turns on her heels and walks away. He barely has enough time to see her glorious derriere - not that he wanted to see, but his eyes are drawn to it as if he’s under a spell or some other form of dark magic and he just can’t help it - that she disappears. Only then does he blink out of this trance and follows into her steps. 

 

He’s suddenly not as thrilled she’s about to become his boss, his superior, the one he’ll have to answer to. The thought crosses his mind. Maybe he should just quit.

 

* * *

 


	6. Suspended

* * *

 

 

Jenkinson seems to be in a hurry to take her leave, he notices. Ten minutes later, the former CS is done explaining to his new chief how the station works, telling her she can turn to him if she has any more questions, or call her in case of absolute necessity or if she has a question he can’t answer. Twenty minutes later, she’s done saying her heartfelt farewells to everyone in the station, telling him - for a reason he can’t quite discern - that she enjoyed working with him and that he’s been her best officer. And then she’s gone, leaving the newly promoted CDI standing in front of all these people she’s now in charge of. 

 

He decides to sit on the front row, next to Miller, leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and does his best to encourage her with a conniving nod. He hears the whispers behind his back, words that twist his stomach and slurs that makes his blood boil. Of course. She’s young, beautiful, sexy, blond, and she’s their boss. It doesn’t take much more for those stupid hormone-ridden constables to see her as a porn fantasy come to life. He can’t help it. He glares at them from above his shoulder and mouths a few words.  _ My office. Later.  _ That’s enough for silence to fall over the assembly, and he brings back his attention to her.

 

She offers a smile, clasps her hands behind her back, swipes her eyes over the small crowd of people gathered in the open space. He can’t understand why she feared talking without her piece of paper, because she has a presence and a confidence that immediately capture and enrapture everyone, from himself to the janitor leaning against his broom in a corner.

  
  


“My name is Rose Tyler, and as of today, I am chief detective inspector and superintendent of the Broadchurch police station,” she starts - he likes that voice a lot, he realizes, just a bit deep but melodious and soft. “Before you make any assumptions on the reasons that brought me here, know that I worked successively for the Special Reconnaissance Regiment of the British Army, the MI6 and the MI5. And if ten years as a secret operative for the Queen isn’t enough to convince you I’m fit for the job, let me add I also followed a three-month training course within the London police and watched every series of Poirot.”

  
  


He’s awfully embarrassed by the chortle that comes out of his mouth, but he believes no one’s heard it among the sudden laughter that courses through the audience. She’s good, this Rose Tyler. First, she tells them all she has more experience that most of them, asserts her position as a tough and strict chief that shouldn’t be messed with, and then she makes a good-humoured joke to make them understand she’s not a robot soldier without feelings. The perfect balance between bona fide authority and offstage simplicity. 

 

She’ll have no trouble carving her hole in this town and in this station. He was right. People will definitely like her.  _ He  _ likes her. 

  
  


“When I worked for the MI6, we had a saying,” she continues, softly, when the laughter has dwindled down enough. “Death over surrender. Always choose death over surrender. Hopefully, here in Broadchurch, it won’t ever come to this. All I want to say, which I’m sure is something you all know already, is that the job we do here is important. It’s not even a job, it’s a vocation. We all chose to help people, protect them, defend them. We have a duty. Always put people first. And remember, to people, there are no small crimes. Don’t let them down. Be there when they need you and always do your absolute best. It’s not up to you to decide if a case is worth it. It’s always worth it.”

  
  


No one laughs, this time, and he thinks he feels the same as everyone else. Things have been quiet, too quiet, and he believes most of them needed this reminder. They’ve lost track of what their job means, grown idle and turned to sloths dozing through the day that’s only peppered by momentary lapses in the uneventful life of this small town. She’s  _ very  _ good, this Rose Tyler. An iron fist in a silk glove, straight priorities and gentle optimism. Darn, he  _ does  _ like her. Very much.

  
  


“If at any point, you have a suggestion, a request, doubts or complaints, if you ever need to talk about professional or personal matters or require assistance, my door is always open. I’m here for all of you, so please, do not hesitate to come and see me, call me or send me an email. I’ll always help as best as I can. Now, do you have any questions?”

  
  


He doesn’t really have any, and even if he had, he’s not sure he would have dared to ask them in public - the few he can think of might be too personal, with what they shared the line between strictly professional and more intimate is rather blurry at the moment. 

 

Oh, how much he wishes he didn’t hear that. That one wanker who made rude and connoted comments earlier, he does it again. He asks a question under his breath, snorts as quietly as he can, jokes in murmurs with his wanker friend.

 

Fuck, his blood rushes to his head and he wants to cut his balls and make little pouches out of them so he can wear them around his neck, teach him the very concept of respect, Hardy-style, break his jaw and saw off his tongue so he won’t ever be able to speak so insolently ever again.

 

He know it’ll be ill advised to unleash his infamous quick temper in the middle of this assembly, and he would hate to see the efforts she’s put into her speech ruined. Help people, she said. Be worthy of the job, she said. He highly doubts she’d consider bashing that wanker’s face against a wall  _ helping _ .

 

So, instead, he decides it better to leave it to her. He thinks she’s more than capable enough to deal with that kind of obscene behavior from one of her subordinates - after all, she’s the boss, ex-spy and ex-whatever war machine she used to be when she worked for the MIs.

  
  


“He has,” he calls out aloud, pointing his thumb behind him to designate the pig - because that’s not really a man, much less a police officer that sitting there. “Well, go on, Royle, what was your question? Don’t be shy, I’m sure Chief Tyler can give you an answer.”

“I didn’t…”

“Oh, none of that now,” he encourages him with a smile that drips with so much acid the constable turns to quivering flesh melting on his seat. “Hurry the fuck up and ask your question. Don’t make me ask for it twice. Spit it.”

“How… How much for a b... Blowjob...”

“What was that, Royle? I think Mister Miles over there didn’t hear. Louder.”

“I asked how much for a blowjob, alright Hardy? God’s sake, you’re such an arsehole! What’re you doing, playing knight and princess so you’ll be the one to shag her? Sod off, your wrinkled cock can’t even get harder than a Frankfurt and your dry nuts make you spurt powder, she’ll get more pleasure from your little finger, and that’s if arthritis doesn’t make it as impotent as the expired tiny sausage you have in your pants!”

  
  


He doesn’t really know what happens. He just knows that his vision turns white for a second, and mere moments later he’s standing, one fist clenched around his shirt and one fist in the air, ready to pull out his teeth with bare hands that most definitely don’t suffer from arthritis just yet. He just knows Miller is on him in a heartbeat, locking his arms and pulling him away from that man -  _ pig  _ \- whose face he wants to transform into a masterpiece of cubism worthy of Picasso.

  
  


“Say that again, you little piece of prepubescent shit,” he growls, loud and threatening, giving a hard shove of his shoulder to try and get free of Miller’s tight hold. “I fucking dare you, say that to my face again.”

“Oh, did you forget to put you hearing aid on this morning,  _ Softy _ ?”

“Excuse-me, did I just walk in a circus by accident? Is this some kind of welcome show?”

  
  


His eyes fight not to look to the side, because he’s heard her, he’s heard her bewilderment, disappointment, irritation, and her bitter question is a blow in his pride. He’s ashamed, he thinks. He’s not ashamed very often, and he’s properly angry that it has to happen now, here. He can’t look at her, but Royle doesn’t seem to be able to either; The open space, which is usually filled with a general hubbub, falls in an awkward silence, an atmosphere filled with toxic tension, and he feels all it’s going to take is a word, a breath for everyone to be infected and go mad.

  
  


“You two, in my office,” she states dryly, sharp words like quick and loud claps of thunder that forbid any other sound to echo in their wake. “The others get back to work, and I strongly advise you don’t comment on any of this.”

  
  


He feels like a little kid, anxiety heavy in his stomach and regret sour in the back of his throat, like he’s been asked into the principal’s office after a foolish act of mischief he knew was wrong but committed anyway. Bloody Hell, he’s a forty-three year old cop and she makes him feel like he’s a ten year old baddie. Okay, he shouldn’t have let his temper take the reins and puppeteer his sodding male ego into violence, but what the Hell. No police officer should say such things. No one should say that kind of things, not to him, not to her, not to anyone. It’s just common decency, he believes. He can only hope she’ll go easier on him than on the pig.

 

He follows into the steady click of her heels - which are just a bit responsible for this situation, he thinks - and soon, he’s stepping into her office, Royle in his steps. She stands there, behind her desk, and if he had his glasses on he’s almost certain he’d see the thunderbolts her eyes are shooting at the both of them.

  
  


“What the Hell was that?” she asks after the door clacks shut. “Seriously, what the Hell was that about? Was there a bet going on, on who I’d get to fire first? Well done, you’re both in line already.”

“He disrespected you,” he tells her - he has half a heart to apologize for his more than unreasonable behavior, but well, if he can lessen the weight of the blame he’ll have to bear instead…

“Yes, I figured as much, thank you Detective Hardy,” she rolls her eyes - right, well, if she weren’t so distracting maybe he would have realized that was a shite idea. “I won’t beat around the bush gentlemen. This is a police station, not a playground, and that was intolerable. Royle, you’re on probation for two months.”

“What?” the constable huffs - and he can’t help the small grin that makes the corner of his mouth twitch. “Two months for a silly argument?”

“As Detective Hardy so rightly pointed out, you disrespected me. You also disrespected him almost to the point of it being a felony, because yes, I should remind you verbal abuse  _ is  _ a felony. You won’t leave the station, Royle. Anything comes up, you don’t investigate, you don’t go out, you don’t do anything.”

“How am I supposed to train properly if I can’t get involved in investigations?”

“How am I supposed to believe you can treat people who ask for your help with respect  if you can’t respect your own superiors?”

“Bloody Hell, that was just a joke, ‘s not a bloody crime.”

“Fine, no probation, then,” she smiles as she takes out an orange form from one of her drawer and hands it to him - he likes that colour, orange, it’s a good colour, orange. “Suspension. Fill this in and get going. Two months, more than enough time to think and maybe revise the basics. Give me your badge, your gun, and get out.”

  
  


He’s never been quite comfortable with the symbolism associated to a police officer handing over that black wallet and that black holster, but in that moment he can only feel thrilled to see the pig slam the both of them down on her desk. He simply hopes she won’t ask the same of him - that wouldn’t be thrilling at all. Well, maybe just a little teeny wee bit, because that’d mean she wouldn’t be his superior any longer, and they’d get to shag as much as they wanted with middle fingers aimed at all those horrid gossipers. 

  
  


“What about him?” the constable asks, apparently judging it necessary to make sure he wouldn’t have to eat the cake of their mutual disrespect alone - and suddenly he’s wondering, was thinking of shagging with his superior disrespectful as well?

“I’ll deal with it. Get out now, Royle.”

  
  


It’s only when the constable is out that he fully realizes how disappointed in him she is. She bows her head with a sigh, shakes it slowly, sits down on her chair and crosses her hands over her desk. He shouldn’t care. He’s taught himself a long time ago not to care about people’s feelings, not to interfere, because life has made it pretty obvious caring only leads to trouble too big and too heavy to take. Divorce, pacemaker, estranged daughter. Nope, caring has never brought him anything good in life. He’s got a jinxed karma, he thinks.

 

But right now, he cares. It doesn’t matter why - he expressly refuses to acknowledge why, because the reason is he likes her, this Rose Tyler, more than reason would advise or common sense would dictate, and he can’t like anyone anymore, especially not her.

 

But he cares.

 

He doesn’t think about shagging anymore, doesn’t even remember he’s been thinking about shagging. All he’s thinking about are the ways he can make her feel better about the whole thing, but he’s never been good at consoling people, much less people he likes. It’s too awkward, too fake to sit there and try to understand what they’re going through. It doesn’t do people any justice to pretend to know what they feel, to share a burden only they know the weight of. He’s never been good at that, he doesn’t want to be good at that.

 

So, he just says what she probably expects of him.

  
  


“I’m sorry,” he apologizes - he’s thankful he hasn’t forgotten how to say those words, they’re not really part of his everyday vocabulary and they’ve been erased from his dictionary a while ago.

“Why didn’t you just let it slide, Hardy?” she asks with yet another sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Come on, I’ve worked with men all my life, I’ve heard it all before.”

“That doesn’t make it any less disrespectful, Tyler,” he retorts - because, bloody Hell, that’s a fight he’ll go down for. “You’re his boss, he shouldn’t have.”

“I know, but… Fuck, Hardy, do you realize the position you’ve just put me in? Ten minutes in and I have to suspend someone? That’s not gonna make the fact that we shagged any easier to accept for them, you know. I’ve suspended him, but I won’t suspend you ‘cause you did nothing to justify such measures. Then what are they going to think, uh? I shagged you so you’re not liable to anything you do?”

“I’m the highest ranked officer here, ‘part from you, they’ll just shut their mouths like they should and to Hell with all of it. He calls you a prostitute and I shouldn’t be outraged? He calls me a decaying impotent and I shouldn’t be furious? I’m a copper, Tyler, I might be a shite and tosser copper, but I still have some sense of justice. You suspended him, he bloody well deserved it. You want me on probation because I almost knocked his teeth out, fine with me, do it, show them even I can’t get away with shit I do. You’re the boss, show them, tell them what Jenkinson never did. You won’t earn their respect if you let them call you a bitch behind your back, you won’t deserve their trust if you can’t trust them back. All year long,we’re the police in a small town, Tyler. We’re not secret operatives in Syria for a mission with people you’ll work with a week and never see again. We need hierarchy, we need order, we need stability. Don’t let this be how they’re gonna see you for the years to come. Now come on, give me the bloody yellow form, and go back out there to tell them what happened. They’ll want to know.”

“I hate you, Hardy, I bloody hate you. You made my first day a nightmare.”

“Aye, well, I’m a tosser, they don’t call me shitface for nothing.”

“So they can call you shitface but they can’t call me a bitch?”

  
  


He pinches his lips as she hands him the yellow form, and the paper crunches in his hand when he curls his fingers tightly around it. He hates it when she points out the things that shouldn’t be pointed out. She’s right, again, and she pulls on strings that could tear his heart out, again. He wants to be different. No one knows that, no one thinks that, no one even comes close to conceiving the idea he could ever be different. But in times like this, when he’s talking to a woman that plays all the right chords on the tendrils of his feelings, he wishes he could be. Nicer. Funnier. More open, more pleasant. Just better. 

 

He used to be, he believes. Before his whole life was flushed down the drain along with everything that made him decent. But not anymore. He’s not better. He can’t ever be. Not even for a woman like this, not even for a woman he desires for more than just her body, but for who she really is and everything she makes him feel. 

  
  


“You’re a bitch,” he tells her without a waver in his voice, rolling the piece of paper in his hands as he takes a step back towards the door. 

  
  


He smirks, not happily, rather sadly, at the way her mouth opens to let a silent scandalized cry out, at the way she glares at him.

  
  


“Doesn’t feel nice to be called that, does it?” he raises an eyebrow - he gives a small pout of apology when she realizes he didn’t mean it. “I don’t care if they call me shitface. I know they do, they know I know. My reputation preceded me here, Tyler, they knew who I was before I came. They knew I was a tosser, and I know I still am. Can’t change that. But they don’t know  _ you _ . You have a chance to build a good reputation here. Don’t waste it to wankers like Royle and tossers like me. You deserve better than that. Now go on, go tell them. I’ll make sure they see the form.”

 

* * *

 


	7. Nibbles

* * *

 

 

It’s getting quite late. Autumn is well on its way to winter already, the night falls early, the days gets shorter. He turns on his lamp, blinks a few times to get used to the unnatural light that momentarily blinds him. The sky isn’t black yet, just a dark grey with the moon tucked in a corner of that far-end window, across the open space, the only square that offers him a peek on the outside world. It’s going to be a clear night. Cold, but clear. He can already spot a few of the brightest stars, and he knows it won’t take much longer before he sees an impenetrable canvas of black velvet specked with diamonds. He prefers night over day. Both are quiet, but it’s a different quiet. Quiet days are boring. Quiet nights are soothing. Here, in Broadchurch, at least. 

 

Most of the officers are gone - Miller left an hour ago to pick up her kids at school, the others clocked out at five. He’s alone. Almost alone. Their offices are built against the same wall, and he can only see a dim corridor of light that emanates from somewhere to the left. She’s still here, when she could be gone. Still here, when he’s sure she must have a thousand things to do, more important and more interesting than staying here.

 

Then again, he is still here, too. But he has a good reason. He could be home already, sprawled in his couch to watch the same news he’s been watching all day long for lack of any emergency or calls. But he wanted to see her. Talk to her. To say what exactly, he’s not sure, but he knows the words will come to him when they’re alone in her office, without any prying eyes or indiscreet ears.

 

So, he picks up the yellow form he’s duly filled in - it barely took him a minute, because most of the boxes and lines are meant to be scribbled in by her. There were quite a few times over the first few years of his careers when he actually felt anxious to receive that kind of forms. He’s always fallen victim to his temper, probably less then than now, and at first it had been hard to pretend he didn’t care. Now, he doesn’t care at all, and he’s fine with it. He probably shouldn’t be, he knows that, but if he’s honest, he also knows most of his career is already behind him, and he knows he doesn’t want to be promoted to a position that involves sitting behind a desk, filing papers and eventually dying of boredom. Getting this kind of punishment is the best way he can ensure his survival as a detective.

 

Oh, she’s wearing glasses. Thick black frame, rectangular lenses perched on the tip of her nose. He hurries to chase the thought that those glasses coupled with her not-quite-decent uniform makes her look like she’s just crawled out of cliched cheap porn movie, and he knocks on her door.

  
  


“Hardy, come in,” she greets him without lifting her eyes from the paper she’s reading - she’s not cold, but she’s not warm either. “Thought you’d be gone already, everyone left ages ago.”

“I could say the same to you,” he points out as he slides the yellow form over her paper. “It’s not like we’re overwhelmed with work. What kept you?”

“Oh, just a couple of wankers,” she sighs, finally looking at him above the rim of her glasses - nope, still not commenting on those glasses, the yellow form is definitely the best form. “Lost an hour to phone calls, emails and paperwork. Thanks for that, by the way. My bosses were absolutely  _ thrilled _ .”

“Your bosses?’

“Yes, my bosses, I’m the chief superintendent of Shitetown, not the Queen,” she huffs as she leans back in her chair and probably tries to murder him with a stare that’s only matched by the kind of looks he usually gives to people he doesn’t like. “Do you know how many bloody people are above me? I had to deal with them, Hardy. Now they all think I’m going rampant and firing people at will, and they’re seriously starting to think it was a mistake to send me here. And you know what? You’re not the only on probation anymore.”

“You’re shitting me, right?” he grins - a grin that quivers just a little, because though he’s convinced she’s joking, her impassible and dark face is enough to doubt just a wee teeny bit. “You’re not on probation, Tyler, you can’t be. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  
  


She sighs, opens her drawer, takes out a yellow form. That’s her name he reads, in the top-left box, but it doesn’t really make sense. Why would she be on probation for just doing her job? 

  
  


“The people above me? They’re all men, Hardy,” she grimaces as if she understood his unspoken question, spreading her arms without much enthusiasm  before she reaches for a large hoodie she shrugs over her shoulders. “I had to explain what happened, in details. They said that I didn’t respect the dress code, and that if I hadn’t dressed like this it wouldn’t have happened. So, probation.”

“Fucking Hell, they didn’t dare, did they?” he frowns, unable to believe higher authorities would even wave such a ridiculous and sexist argument to justify probation. “Do they even know that’s the kind of things rapists say to argue they can’t be blamed for raping a woman? What a bunch of dumbfucks.”

“What can I say, Hardy, it’s not like I could point that out and risk more than just a probation period. I want this job, I  _ need  _ this job. So I just had to keep my mouth shut, say  _ yes, Sir _ , and take the blame with the figurative smile. Thanks for the good intentions, though. You’re a straight-up bloke, Alec, I appreciate that. But those people up there, you just can’t argue with them, ‘xcept if you want to lose more than your pride.”

“I’m… Sorry, Tyler,” he says for lack of any other comforting words to say. “If I’d known it’d come to this, I wouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t realize you’d have to deal with your own higher-ups. I should have known. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Well, depends, when’s your day off?” she asks - he’s not really reassured by the sudden smile that blooms on her face, God she’s so pretty, and he wonders if it was actually wise to offer a favour.

“Twenty-three year career, Tyler, I’ve got my Saturdays and Sundays,” he shrugs all while trying to think of what she might ask of him - just please, no touring the town and taking walks along the cliffs. “I usually come in to work, though. Not like I have anything better to do. Why?”

“You do want to apologize for your horrible behaviour, right?”

“This sounds like an invitation to shag, I hope you realize that. We don’t have to wait for our days-off, though, your desk is big enough.”

  
  


Jesus, that’s the first attempt at a joke he’s made in years and all he can come up with is a sexually connoted taunt that only manages to spark short-lived but vivid images of all those things that could happen on that desk. Hopefully, she won’t see the blush he feels rising on his cheeks nor his thoughts he’s aware must reel in his eyes like a full technicolour movie. If he didn’t like her as much, or if he hadn’t seen her naked already, it might have been easier to control those thoughts. But she doesn’t make it easy, this woman.

  
  


“You are such a tosser, Hardy,” she laughs - good, she’s oblivious to the fact that he wants to snog her thoroughly and make the most of the leverage that height of desk offers, and maybe tell her she smells nice and looks beautiful, and maybe tell her he’d like to take her on a date someday because he likes her. “No, I was hoping you could give me a hand with my house. I need to tear off the old wallpapers, change the furniture, do some paintwork and overall cleaning. I want to build myself a pretty house, and if I do it alone it’s going to take eons. You’d just have to help me move a wardrobe and a few other heavy things, if you don’t mind. And, well, if you think your old back won’t break in half, or your heart won’t give out. Don’t want to kill my best detective.”

  
  


If he’s not mistaken, there’s just a hint of actual concern in her voice. She’s read his file, then. If she didn’t notice his pacemaker when they were naked in her bed, now she knows. Great. Now she not only knows he’s old, but that he’s a death threat walking around with a ticking bomb. The pacemaker helps, of course, but it doesn’t really make his heart any stronger. It’s still weak and degenerated, but at least it’s weak and degenerated to the proper beat. He absent-mindedly scratches the spot on his chest until she eyes it with insistence and he has to pretend he’s only flicking off invisible specks of dust from his jacket.

  
  


“I’m fine,” he simply says with an awkward shrug as he shoves his hand in his pocket. “You should be more worried about the gossip than my heart, truth be told.”

“Well, I’ve kinda decided people can sod off,” she smiles after a giggle that makes his eyebrows rise and the corner of his lips curl upwards. “We’re the police, Hardy, not a religious sect that forbids any kind of friendly relationships. And when the people need us, I don’t think they’ll mind what happens between us as much if we can get them out of their crap. Just let them talk and they’ll bore themselves out faster than they can get on our nerves.”

“That’s actually a good point, Tyler,” he smiles back - he’s pleased that his cheeks are finally getting used to smiling, the muscles in his face much less tense and much more responsive. “I can roll with that. Should we say tomorrow at nine?”

“Sounds good, yeah. I’d better go, then. I’m gonna need my sleep after that first horrible day.”

  
  


He agrees with a silent nod, and he waits. He doesn’t usually wait for people, he’s rather used to walking away without a look back, without expecting anyone to follow in his steps, without caring if he loses someone in his wake. It just wouldn’t feel right. He can always find an excuse - she’s not used to the station, maybe she’ll get lost, and he couldn’t care less that has to be one of the worst excuses he’s ever come up with. 

 

He holds the door for her, a delicious wisp of her perfume tickles his nose, and he has a little more than half a heart to ask her if she’d like to stop somewhere along the way to grab some dinner. The question burns his tongue and his lips, burns his stomach with the long-forgotten feeling of what it’s like to try to invite a college crush on a date, burns his lungs and makes it impossible to breathe in enough to fuel the words.

  
  


“Oh my God, Hardy, look at that,” she says with an excited tug on his sleeve.

  
  


Well, he certainly didn’t expect to stop along the way to grab some dinner so soon, but at least he doesn’t have to ask. She goes straight to the pile of nibbles and toasts, remnants of what must have been a luscious feast Jenkinson planned for her farewell party. He didn’t go, he’s not exactly the man to fancy public displays of emotions, or any public gathering of any kind, for that matter. 

  
  


“I didn’t join, thought it’d be kinda wrong ‘cause I didn’t know her,” she continues - and she looks at him as if she needs his approval before she can devour to the last crumb of the last toast. “D’you think we can?”

  
  


If he’d been younger, bolder, maybe a bit more carefree than his grumpy copper arse, maybe a bit more confident that he actually had a very slim chance of ever seducing this woman, he would just have picked one of the nibbles and slipped it into her mouth. But he’s none of that.

  
  


“Sure, go ahead,” he shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the table. “It’ll all end up in the bin anyway.”

“Don’t you want some? There’s even some wine left, we could have dinner. Well, sort of.”

  
  


While it’s an offer he wants to refuse - he’s learnt the hard way the wine and boss combination doesn’t work out well - he still finds himself with a glass of wine in one hand and a toast in the other a minute later. They somewhat end up on the couch, and she really shouldn’t be that close, and she really shouldn’t be looking at him with a smile like that, especially with those glasses, and she really shouldn’t do that. He might not be anymore, but she is. Young, bold, and carefree. And she does what he would have done if he were.

 

She brings a nibble to his mouth, pushes it past his lips without much resistance on his part, and she keeps smiling as her fingers rests there, touches the tip of his tongue as he draws the small treat to the back of his mouth. He’s not giving in. He want to suck her finger, lick that little bit that’s sticking to her fingertip, answer her provocation with a provocation of his own. But he doesn’t give in. Because he knows it’s just a game to her, and he wants to be true to his promise. Never play that kind of game unless he’s sure there’s a chance to win. He doesn’t stand a chance with her, and not even the wine can convince him otherwise.

  
  


“What should we start with tomorrow, then?” he asks when her hand finally retreats.

“Definitely the bedroom,” she grins as she leans back against the cushion and sips on her wine. “The furniture and the walls give me the creeps, couldn’t get a wink of sleep last night. The new furniture’s delivered at three, so we should have enough time to clear the room up.”

“So all that stuff in there wasn’t yours?”

“Nope, everything came with the house,” she says between two other bites on a mini-pizza. “Can’t complain, bought the whole of it for twenty thousand quid. Not that it’s worth much more than that, given I’ll have to basically rebuild the whole thing if I want to survive next winter.”

“Why not buy a brand new house?” he asks - he doesn’t like to make conversation, but it’s better to occupy his mouth with words rather than giving her a opportunity to shove her fingers in there again. “Why not renovate the house before you moved in?”

“‘Cause all my MI5 money is on a blocked account until the end of the year, and just over a week passed between my retirement and my appointment. That didn’t leave many choices. And I actually like the house, nice spot, quiet, away from everything. Big enough for a family, one day. Maybe. When you’re with the secret services, family isn’t really part of your everyday vocab. I think I just want a decent bloke and a couple of kids, and to be honest I’m not even sure I’m made for that kind of life. Anyway, what about you, then?”

“You’ve read my file, Tyler, you already know. Nothing to add.”

“Right, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Just wondering…”

“Wondering what?”

“I don’t know, you don’t seem to be the kind of bloke you’d ever want to divorce.”

“You’ve known me for two days, Tyler, don’t make assumptions on who I am just yet. Give it a few weeks, you’ll understand. Look, I really don’t want to talk about that. I married a witch who fucked me over, and I lost everything. I lost my house, my job, my friends. I lost the woman I loved and I lost eight years I didn’t get to see my daughter grow up. And guess what,  _ I _ divorced the bitch, because she wouldn’t even let me try to patch things up. I fucking tried, and she made me feel like I was the one who cheated on her. I fucking tried, so hard, because I knew she’d get the full custody of my daughter if we divorced ‘cause everyone thought I was the one to ruin the bloody investigation and everyone thought I was the fucking worst cop in Britain for losing the one piece of evidence that could have proven the bastard’s guilt! So yes, I divorced her, and now I’m here in bloody Shitetown for a bloody penance I don’t even have to seek ‘cause none of that bloody shitstorm was my doing! Is your curiosity satisfied, CDI Tyler?”

  
  


It’s only when he stops talking that the weight of reality falls back down hard on his shoulders. He realizes he’s short of breath, nostrils flaring to try and breathe in more air. 

 

He’s standing there, fingers curled into tight fists, his plastic cup of wine gently rocking at his feet, the dark purple liquid a small puddle glistening on the linoleum. He feels it, the vein pulsating under the skin of his temple with the quick and hard beat of his heart even the pacemaker can’t control. He’s angry. A blind anger that brews in the pit of his stomach and can’t get out, because he knows she’s not the one to blame and he can’t unleash it all on her.

 

She’s standing there, afraid or hurt, he can’t tell, maybe both, probably both, mouth gaping and eyebrows stitched in the middle by a frown he can’t describe. He watches as she grabs her purse, puts her glass down on the table. Two days. It’s taken him less than two days to ruin whatever hope he had to finally have a proper friend.  _ Fuck _ .

  
  


“For someone who didn’t want to talk about it, you sure did get it off your chest, Hardy,” she smiles without that usual bright humour that makes her voice sparkle. “You should try to speak to people more often. ‘S not good to keep all that to yourself. I should go, it’s late. Good night, Hardy.”

  
  


He wants to answer, wants to apologize, wants to say or do something to show her, tell her he’s sorry, but her heels are already clicking on the floor and her steps take her past him on her way to the stairs. She doesn’t look at him, but she stops next to him, puts a hesitant hand on his forearm like he’s a wild animal who needs to be tamed.

  
  


“You’re a good man, Alec,” she says softly, with barely more than a quick squeeze on his arm and a fleeting glance. “I think you’re the only who doesn’t want to see that. Get home safe, yeah?”

  
  


And then she’s gone. For lack of anything or anyone to punch, he kicks the plastic cup and curses at the wine that splashes and stains his dark blue suit. Right. Such a good man. 

 

* * *

 


	8. #1 FRIEND

* * *

 

 

It’s already ten past nine, he’s already dressed in old jeans and a sweater that has seen better days, he’s already laced his pair of old trainers. He’s been ready to go for an hour. And he’s still at home. Debating whether he should go at all, wondering if he should call her to make sure she didn’t want him there, thinking she might be cursing him for not turning up, or thanking the Heavens he hadn’t. He simply doesn’t know, and a headache is slowly starting to crawl out of his brain. If only she could get him out of his misery…

 

Just as he gulps down the last swig of his cold tea and decides he might as well check up on her, his phone rings. Unknown number, of course, but it can only be her. It’s not like many people have this number - not that he has many numbers in that phone either, truth be told.

  
  


“Hardy,” he answers - Jesus, why does he have to sound so grouchy when all he wants is to apologize?

“You’re late,” she rather matter-of-factly states at the end of the line. “Just wanted to know if you were coming, and, well, make sure you didn’t die on your way back home yesterday.”

“I’m fine,” he sighs as he runs a hand through his hair - he’s picked up his phone, for God’s sake, she knows he’s not dead. “I’m ready, I didn’t know if you’d want to see me with what happened yesterday. Do you want me to come, then?”

“Only if you promise not to punch though my brand new furniture or throw my vases against the walls,” she says - ah, there, he hears her smile through the phone, that’s so much better. “Come on, Hardy, just get your arse up here, at least I’ll have something to kick to relieve my stress.”

“I’m usually not the one you call for stress-relief,” he smirks as he tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder so he can shove his wallet in his pocket and snatch his back brace from the table. “I’ll be there in, uh… Fifteen minutes, give or take. Depends on the traffic.”

“Don’t shit me, Hardy, Broadchurch is the only town in Britain where it’s faster to drive to your location than teleport there. Come on, that wardrobe won’t move on its own.”

“Aye, Ma’am, on my way. See ye in a bit.”

  
  


Fifteen minutes. Well, that’s going to be a rather tight time frame to fit what he planned. But like she said, traffic shouldn’t be too much of a bother, not even on a Saturday. Same town, same nothing. It takes him four minutes to get to the town center, and he has no trouble finding a parking space right in front of the two shops he’s got in sight - which are thankfully only a dozen feet away from each other. 

 

The first purchase only takes two minutes, because he couldn’t care less what to chose and goes straight for the one on display at the entrance - he internally winces when the lady announces the price, but takes out his credit card before she can redirect him to something else. 

 

The second purchase takes much too long, probably seven to eight minutes - a look at his watch tells him nine, and are watch hands supposed to move this fast? - just because the old man behind the counter seems to be stuck in a perpetual slow-motion loop. He pays the twenty quid the old man asks for, can’t help feeling like it’s a complete rip-off, and the fifteen minutes are gone. That’s when teleporting would actually become handy, he thinks. Or time travel. Or both. Except all he’s got is that old diesel Skoda that spits so much toxic fumes he’s amazed the town’s never been evacuated yet, and he knows the Skoda can’t do miracles. He’s going to be late.

 

Not that much, though, because it’s a grand total of twenty-one minutes later that he parks along her picket fence, and he spots her busy rummaging through the boot of her car. He balances everything he has to take in his arms and walks up to her, nudges her thigh with his knee when he understands she’s oblivious to his presence.

  
  


“Hiya, Tyler,” he greets with a smile - a smile that dies when she turns around and he sees the fresh blood smeared on her cheek. “Fuck, you alright?”

“You’re late, Hardy,” she grins as she wipes her hand on a rag so dirty he’s not sure it can properly sponge the blood that’s also covering her hands. “Don’t worry, chicken blood, not mine.”

“Chicken blood?” he raises his rogue eyebrow - he feels rather annoyed by the way this conversation is going, why couldn’t he just say he got her things, say sorry, and start working.

“I don’t know if Royle is the resentful kind of bloke or if the people in this town have a rather creepy tradition going on to welcome newcomers,” she shrugs before she starts to walk to her porch with the scrubbing brush she’s found in her boot. “But I found a beheaded chicken on my doorstep when I came out, half an hour ago.”

“A chicken?” he frowns - of course, he can’t help thinking of the mad lady who keeps calling about her missing chickens, and the detective he is wonders if that beheaded chicken could actually be hers. “That’s odd. Seen anyone? Taken photos?”

“I didn’t see anyone, and yes, I took photos, just in case,” she shrugs before she throws a bucket of water over the pool of blood on the top step of her porch and energetically scrubs the wood. “It was killed here, that’s all I know. Too much blood, and it’s too fresh. Don’t worry, Hardy, I’ve seen worse than dead chickens.”

  
  


When she seems satisfied that most of the dark red substance has been cleaned, she wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist and gets back to her feet with a smile. He hopes she’s going to relieve him of what he’s holding, but instead of relief she gives him embarrassment and one reason for his whole face to get a few degrees warmer. She stands on her toes and presses a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

  
  


“Didn’t say hi, did I?” she grins even wider - great, she’s noticed his blush, perfect, the only thing he needed was to look like a teenage boy who can’t even deal with a kiss. “So, you’re going to tell me what you’re doing with all this? Just so you know, if you’re late because of these, you’re forgiven.”

“Ah, well, yes, these are…” he starts as he hands her the expensive bunch of multicoloured flowers - he suddenly notices a few roses are scattered among the rest, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. I’m not good with anger management, I’m not good with random quizzes about my life, and I’m not good with talking in general. I’ve never been good at conversations, I just don’t do them, and the only time I can’t stop my stupid gob is when I’m angry. I just… Shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

“So, the flowers mean…” she teases, letting that last word drawl out of her mouth until he rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“Sorry, alright, Tyler?” he half-sighs, half-growls - all it takes for his straight annoyed face to break is her laugh, and he rubs his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. “Got you something for your house, too.”

“And what would that be, Hardy?”

  
  


He tears off the blue paper, slides the item out of the pocket and offers it in his palm.

  
  


“You got me a horseshoe,” she says with pinched lips, as if she doesn’t want to snort and hurt his feelings. “I didn’t know you were into lucky charms and traditions, Hardy. Full of surprises, you are.”

“I’m not, except for this one,” he shrugs, hanging his silver-plated horseshoe on the nearby coat-rack. “Runs in the family, great-great-grandparents on my father’s side were horse breeders in the Highlands, great-grandfather was a jockey, and my grandparents owned an equestrian club. You don’t have to take it, or believe it, it’s not your tradition after all.”

“No, I’ll take it, it’s really nice,” she smiles - just as well, because that poor replica cost him twenty quid and he doesn’t want to waste time with the old man to get a refund. “Thank you, Alec.”

  
  


He wants to tell her she really should stop calling him by his first name, but instead he just shrugs a _ you’re welcome _ and follows her steps to the kitchen. He notices the house looks much warmer in broad daylight than it had two nights before. It’s still old, not quite to his liking - he doesn’t want to say horrendous - and decrepit, but it doesn’t look as austere. He believes it might turn out alright, if she ever manages to clean out the overall mess of ancient furniture and decorations, the dust that has gathered in every nook and corner from the ceiling to the floor, the thick layer of dirt that’s covering everything from the windows to the walls.

  
  


“D’you want some tea?” she asks as she washes her hands and forearms in the sink. “They came yesterday for the water, it’s clean now, I’m no trying to kill you.”

“No, thanks, had one before I came,” he shakes his head - he goes to lean against the counter next to her, and he points to her cheek with a finger.

“What? Got something on my face?”

“Chicken blood, you must have smeared it at some point. Here, let me.”

  
  


He reaches for the roll of paper towels and tears one off, splashes some soap and fresh water on it. He almost wishes she wouldn’t let him, because she’s so close, smells so nice, feels so warm, looks so beautiful, he knows it’s the kind of innocent gesture that could betray how he feels - and what he feels, he’s not sure. He likes to think he’s a good detective, he knows how to read people, connect facts, link clues. The only thing he can’t figure out is what happens in his brain. He knows he likes her, of course, but he’s quite unable to say if he likes her as an acquaintance, as a friend, or something more. What he knows even less is if he ever wants to find out at all.

 

But she lets him, slowly turns her head and brushes back a loose strand of hair from her face. Strawberry. He believes her perfume has a certain fragrance of strawberry. Sweet, discreet, pleasant, Probably that kind of cheap perfume sold in general stores whose smell dies after a few hours. Not that she needs more. Not that he’d mind if she weren’t wearing any. There’s a scar on the side of her neck, a thin nacre line that runs from behind her ear to disappear under the collar of her tee-shirt. He’s tempted to ask, but he’s been looking at her for a few seconds too long already.

 

He cups her cheek - a very warm, very soft cheek that would feel heavenly under his lips - makes the soap foam with a few passes of his thumb, and gently rubs the towel over her skin to clean off the dried blood. Maybe he takes longer than necessary, maybe he gives that gesture too much thought and meaning, but for the first time in a long time, he feels like he cares, and he remembers how good and rewarding it feels to care. 

  
  


“There, much better,” he says before he can let his thoughts wander too far on yet unexplored territory. “You sure you didn’t see anyone around your house, lass?”

“No, no one,” she shrugs as she wipes the water from her cheek with the hem of her tee-shirt -  _ don’t look at that skin _ , he thinks so hard he believes he might as well have said it aloud. “Didn’t see anyone, didn’t hear a thing. It’s alright, Hardy, probably someone’s idea of a joke. This is our day off, don’t go all Detective mode over a dead chicken, yeah?”

“Aye, old habits die hard, is all. So, wardrobe, then?”

“Wardrobe, bed, cupboards, that fat chest of drawers. I emptied them all this morning, you wouldn’t believe the crap I found in there. Oh, I did find something for you, though.”

“If it’s not gold I don’t want it, thanks,” he grins as he picks up his back brace and straps it tight around his body. “No comments on the brace, Tyler, I need it because I broke two vertebrae when I was eleven, not because I’m old.”

“How did you even break vertebrae?”

“Not saying, you’ll just laugh and I’ll have to cut your tongue so you don’t go spreading the word.”

“Oh, come on, Alec, I promise I won’t laugh, alright?” she presses - and she’s tugging on his arm with her warm little hand, and drowning him in her warmth and her smell, and enchanting him with that smile, and he can’t resist. “How?”

“I fell off my horse,” he sighs - and so much for her promise, because a quiet laugh rises in her throat and she’s trying to fight off a smile without much success. “I hated horse riding and the bloody mare felt it. Ruby, she was called, she threw me off and stepped on me. Needless to say, I never mounted a horse after that and I became the laughing stock of the family. My dad was really disappointed in me, he had this hope I’d be a famous horse-breaker or something. When I told him I wanted to work for the police, he thought I’d join the mounted branch in London and he nearly cried. Then almost had a stroke when I said I’d rather investigate a dead horse than mount one, and came to my graduation day wearing with the whole paraphernalia of his jockey granddad to protest against my career choice.”

“I’d pay a thousand quid just to see that,” she smirks - there’s no mockery in her voice, just amused interest, and while he’s not one to over-share, or even share for that matter, he reaches inside his pocket and takes out his wallet.

“I’ll give you my sort code and account number later,” he says with a grin as he flicks through a few plastic cards and finds what he’s looking for.

  
  


He hands her a small laminated photograph he’s kept there for years but hasn’t really ever looked at. The corners are a bit rumpled, the colours faded, the plastic nicked here and there, and it only reminds him how much time has passed already. Almost twenty-four years, and he remembers that day as if it were yesterday. His father turned up with those awful red breeches, horrendous green chaps, that old-fashioned tweed jacket and the blue velvet hat with  _ Hardy  _ painted in bright white letters on the side. He’d believed his career was over before it even started despite excellent results in every test and the several reference letters he’d collected. Buried alive under shame and embarrassment as he went to get his badge under a round of applause and shouted Scots swear words - he won’t even mention his dad managed to whip his arse once or twice with his riding crop, the memory is painful enough as it is.

  
  


“I wish I had a dad like yours,” she says softly - strings of their first conversation come back to his head, he remembers she’s never known her own parents, and he realizes it might not have been the best of ideas to talk about his family. “Like, that kind of crazy funny dad who does silly things to embarrass you, but deep down he’s so proud of you and supports everything you do.”

“You can see that in that old photo?”

“I don’t know, but you two look really happy on this. That’s the first time I see you _really_ smile, Hardy, that has to mean something. And your dad definitely doesn’t look disappointed in you. Look at him, you could’ve become the world’s horse racing champion and he wouldn’t even smile like that.”

“He told me the only good thing about this job was that I’d get to make his speeding tickets disappear,” he chuckles as he moves behind her - he’s not sure why, but he sees his hand go to her shoulder and give it a soft squeeze. “But you’re right. He was proud, in his own way. Maybe you’ll meet him someday. Crazy Scot dad. Glad I didn’t inherit his sense of humour, though.”

“I’m sure you could be crazy fun if you tried, Hardy,” she taunts with a gentle shove of her elbow in his ribs before she gives him back the photograph. “Come on, we should get to it. You sure you won’t break your back, yeah? That old furniture’s very heavy.”

“If it does break, blame it on the horse. Lead the way, lass, I’ll show you what’s a real Hardy’s made of.”

“Oh, just get off your high horse, will you?”

“Too soon, Tyler, too soon.”

  
  


She takes him through a corridor that runs between the kitchen and the living-room, the same corridor he saw before, obviously, but it looks rather different without the snogging against the wall and the eyes clouded with lust. The torn painting is still there, propped up against a lamp, and he can’t help his frown when she stops in front of it. He hopes she won’t make any comment on it, nor mention any of what happened two nights before. Because the more he thinks about it, about her, the more he regrets it. Rose, she’s nice, Rose, he likes her. Rose, she deserves better than a shag with too much alcohol in his breath and too much urgency in his hands. He looks at her, at the elegant nape of her neck, at the gentle curve of her cheek, at the delicate plump of her lips. These are not meant to be bitten, nipped or scratched. They’re meant to be kissed, caressed, nuzzled. 

  
  


“Looking for something?” he asks as casually as he can, using the sound of his voice to drown the sound of his thoughts.

“Yeah, the thing I found for you,” she smiles just a wee too brightly to his liking - she rummages in the drawer  _ under  _ the painting, and thank Saint Andrew she doesn’t even seem to see it.  “I’m sure I put it in there, I just… Ah, there it is.”

  
  


She makes sure to hide it in her hands, walks up to him with a tongue-touched grin, and are women supposed to look so pretty when they  _ giggle _ ? She brings her hands to the left side of his chest, tugs on his jumper a little, and a second later he feels something small, thin, cold and hard against his chest. A safety pin she’s also hooked into his tee-shirt by inadvertance.

 

He looks down, eyebrow raised in such a quizzical way it only makes her laugh louder. He looks at the cockade she’s hung over his chest, yellow and red and blue ribbons all knotted together that curtain under a circle filled with a badge. Even from upside down, he has no trouble deciphering what’s etched in the golden metal.  _ #1 FRIEND _ .

 

He doesn’t know how to feel about this, because if it’s a joke, he’s not sure he likes it, and if she means it, even a little, he’s not sure he’s ready to accept it.

  
  


“First friend in Shitetown, Alec,” she tells him with a broad smile and a pat on his cheek. “And the best friend I’ve ever had, if you want to know.”

“Me, your best friend? Come on, Tyler, you’re shitting me.”

“When you go from orphanage to family, then to other families, different schools every six months, you don’t get to make many friends,” she says - she’s still smiling, but it’s rather dimmed, and suddenly all he wants is to actually be her best friend. “With the military, you make comrades, not friends. With the MI5, you’re bound to secrecy, even with your colleagues, not ideal to make friends. So, you’re my very first friend, and that implies you’re the best. Deal with it, Hardy. Now come on, we’ve lost an hour to chit-chat, and lemme tell you, that’s a whole lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t do conversations. Let’s start with the wardrobe, yeah?”

“Aye, whatever my number one friend wants, I guess.”

  
  


The cockade feels heavy on his chest, more because of its symbolic nature than anything else, it’s rather annoying to see the ribbons bounce over his jumper from his peripheral vision, it’s rather irritating to have to readjust his tee-shirt every few seconds because of the pull of the pin. And it’s ugly as shite, if he’s perfectly honest. 

 

She tugs on his little finger when he’s too slow to follow her, bumps her hip against his, shoves his arm with her shoulder. She’s smiling again. He doesn’t take it off.

 

He hopes nothing will happen to the bloody cockade.

 

* * *

 


	9. Maybe Happy

* * *

 

 

“Is there even a Domino’s around here or is this town really hopeless?” she asks as she takes out her phone from her pocket. “I am  _ starved _ and going grocery shopping hasn’t exactly been my priority.”

“No Domino’s, but there’s this joint next to the Echo’s offices,” he shrugs - he doesn’t want to confess he’s been ordering from that place at least twice a week for the better part of the past year, and that it’s probably half-responsible for the mutation of his once well-defined abs into small pouches of chili oil. “I hear they make good enough pizzas, and they deliver.  _ Twisted Toppings _ , it’s called, I think.”

“Nice, what do you want, then?” she says without looking at him, thumbing her way through internet pages to find the phone number - an art he has been quite unable to master despite having owned one of these high-tech mobiles for months.

“I shouldn’t be eating pizza,” he shakes his head, unconsciously scratching the spot over his pacemaker, nail hooking in a lose thread of his cockade.  “Not exactly in my recommended diet. Just get me a salad instead, low-fat dressing, no deli meat.”

  
  


He doesn’t know why he suddenly cares about what he eats - maybe it’s because he’s felt his pacemaker kick in twice in the morning after moving ton-heavy furniture, maybe it’s because he feels his tiny lump of a belly protruding from under the edge of his back brace like an inflated balloon squeezed too tight. Maybe he just wants to be fit again, healthy again, and he won’t ever admit, not to himself, nor to anyone, that this woman has anything to do with it.

 

He’s thankful she doesn’t make any cheeky comment, only nods her assent with a smile and dials the number. He props up his feet on an ancient ottoman embroidered with hideous blue flowers, and for lack of anything better to do, he watches her. She’s the kind who can’t seem to stand still while having a phone conversation, and a grin tugs at his lips. She walks, a steady back and forth along the coffee table, twirls a strand of hair around her finger, smiles, fiddles with her necklace, laughs, suddenly looks fascinated by one of her nails. He hates the word - too childish, too mushy - but he can’t find anything better than  _ cute  _ to qualify how she looks. 

  
  


“They’ll be there in half an hour,” she tells him after she hangs up and shoves her phone back in her pocket. “Want a beer?”

“You don’t have food but you have beer?” he chuckles, leaning in the couch, fingers laced behind his neck. “I suppose you can’t offer a good Scotch on the rocks instead?”

“Ironic or not, I’ve got a bottle of, pardon my Scottish Gaelic,  _ Bunnahabhain _ ,” she grins as she disappears in the kitchen and comes back with a whiskey glass, two ice cubes and a full bottle of Scotch. “Don’t ask me how I got this, Hardy, it’s a long story I can’t talk about.”

“You won’t have one?”

“I hate this stuff, I’d rather have my beer, thanks. But go on, help yourself, you’ve deserved it.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind me opening it? That’s rather expensive, stuff Tyler, not your everyday booze.”

“‘Course not, that’s what it’s here for,” she smiles, dropping next to him in the couch, heeling her shoes off to sit cross-legged on the cushion. “Just don’t over-indulge, we still need to move a few things out, yeah?”

“Oi, I’m not a pisshead, Tyler,” he retorts with a playful nudge of his elbow against her ribs. “And that’s fine Scotch, it would be a crime to get pished on it.”

“It’d be fun to see you properly pished, though,” she teases - he snorts at that, and uncorks the bottle to pour himself a reasonable quantity of the amber liquid. “Might loosen your tongue a little.”

“My tongue works perfectly well without alcohol, thanks very much. Cheers.”

  
  


He clicks his glass against her bottle, and they fall into a comfortable silence that’s only disturbed by the soft jazz song playing in the background on a small stereo. Gentle piano over mellow guitar, the kind of bossa nova he enjoys when he’s alone at home, the kind of music that helps him find peace and quiet when sleep won’t come, held back by nightmares and morose reflections on what his life has become. But he’s not alone, in that moment, and no nightmare can plague him in the middle of the day. He enjoys it more than he should. He feels… Oddly  _ happy _ .

 

He doesn’t remember very well what that word means, and he’s quite sure this isn’t exactly the kind of situation that can foster this feeling. Just a banal slice of life spent with a friend, sitting on a lousy couch that faintly smells of cat piss, listening to songs from a lousy stereo that crackles every few seconds, in a lousy house that creaks so much he’s scared the roof’s going to collapse on top of them any minute, all of that after moving lousy furniture to the back garden for three hours. Nothing exciting, nothing thrilling. Boring, uninteresting, tiring, rather. And yet. He still feels it.  _ Happy _ .

 

It’s not a burst of joy or an explosion of glee - Alec Hardy was never gleeful, Alec Hardy doesn’t even know what  _ glee  _ mean. It’s just a quiet feeling of satisfaction, a reassurance that he can still have human and humane relationships with people. Rose, she’s here, next to him, so close their knees are touching, so close he smells her fading perfume, so close he feels her warmth. She hasn’t run away - yet - and for once he doesn’t feel like running away himself. He supposes those are reasons enough to feel happy when he’s used to be a lonely tosser who secretly longs not be lonely any longer.

 

He’s missed it. He didn’t know he’d been missing it. He didn’t know he hated to be lonely so much. It’s not much, to spend a few hours with someone else, but it’s enough for a sort of numb relief to wash over him. He’s not alone anymore. 

 

She suddenly reaches out to his face, swipes a thumb under his eye, says she thought she saw a little piece of fluff hanging to his eyelashes. He knows there wasn’t any - a particle of dust in the corner of his eye is enough to get on his nerves, and anything that gets close to his eyes is due for instantaneous obliteration - and he wonders why she would say that. He frowns when her fingertips linger on the side of his jaw, and he doesn’t understand the concern he reads on her face.

  
  


“You alright, Hardy?” she asks - why is she asking, has he gone pale, or red, or any other colour of the rainbow that would suggest he’s unwell?

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” he answers with a shrug before he takes another sip of his Scotch, which unfortunately appears to be a bit drowned into the melted ice.

“Dunno, thought I lost you there for a moment. It’s not your heart, is it? We did do a lot this morning.”

  
  


Ah, that’s a feeling he’s familiar with, at last.  _ Annoyed _ . He knows he shouldn’t be, because she cares, and darn, she’s one of the very few persons in the world who still care, if only a little, about him. But he is. Annoyed that she sees him as a sick man who threatens to pass out at the smallest exertion because of his shite heart, as a tired old man who can’t do anything too strenuous without falling on the verge of swooning. He’s not a sick tired old man. He hates that she sees him that way, because if she sees her that way, not a chance in the universe she’ll ever want to share more than a friendship with him.

 

Doesn’t matter.  _ He doesn’t want more _ . He wishes that was just another one of the many lies he tells himself and believes in. That’s a lie he tells himself alright, but he doesn’t really believe that one.

  
  


“‘M fine,” he sighs in defeat, pinching a ribbon on the ridiculous cockade as if he’s tempted to take it off. “My heart’s fine, I wouldn’t have offered my help if I couldn’t do it. D’you mind if I use the loo?”

“The loo, uh?” she repeats with a raised eyebrow, the request sparking another twinge of worry on her face.

“I need a piss is all,” he rolls his eyes as he rises from the couch and points a thumb towards the window pane opened on the back garden. “I can do it against that ugly ass palm tree you’ve got in your garden, if you want to keep your eyes on me.”

“Oh, come one, Hardy, don’t be a fuckwit about this, I was just asking. Upstairs, last door on the left. Mind the taps, they’re like hydrants waiting to explode.”

  
  


He takes off before she can express any more concern or doubt and swallows the steps to the first floor, three at a time. He finds a tiny bathroom that looks weirdly modern for such a house, but that’s not the first thing he notices. No. It’s the smell that assails his nostrils when he walks in, that strawberry perfume he’s now used to, mingled with a variety of sweet fragrances that emanate from the shower. He’s never believed all that crap about women having a distinctive smell that could be recognized among a thousand other - Chanel N°5 is still Chanel N°5, regardless of who wears it. But here, that mix of perfumes melting into each other, into a unique smell that’s both strong and sweet, pungent and so pleasant, that mix is definitely hers. 

 

He wonders, for a second or two, what this bathroom would smell like if he could throw the scent of his own shower gel into that mix. Better, he believes. It would definitely smell better. Maybe, one day…

 

He snorts at himself as he zips up his jeans and goes to the sink.  _ He doesn’t want more _ , he repeats one more time, aloud. He’s known her for three days, for God’s sake, might as well say he doesn’t know her at all. That, and she’s twenty-six. And his boss. He’s always loved complicated, but this is beyond complicated - it skims the edge of impossibility, even. 

 

He stares at his reflection in the mirror and remembers her warning only when a boiling spray of water rushes in the bowl and splashes all around, over his hands, his arms, the front of his jumper, the front of his jeans. Nice. Perfect. Bloody boiling. He hurries to snatch a towel and tries to save his hands from what feels like third degree burns, thanks the Heavens for the thickness of his jeans, glares at that reflection he despises more than anything else. Is that him? Is that how he really looks? Is that his face when he’s angry?

 

His face falls into a quiet grimace of disgust and disappointment. Maybe he’s a sick tired old man, in the end. That’s what he sees, at least. So many crinkles at the corner of his eyes, deep, long. Two drooping pits at the corners of his mouth that stick his expression into an everlasting angry pout. Dark circles, so dark, so low they almost tickle the beard that’s eating his sunken cheeks. There was a time when he thought his face was attractive, but didn’t really care. Now he thinks his face is an epitome of hideousness, and he really cares. 

 

_ He doesn’t want more _ . And even if he did, it wouldn’t matter, because now he’s sure Rose, beautiful, young, nice Rose won’t ever see him as anything more than an old sick man. It doesn’t matter. He can’t let it matter. She’s his friend, that’s already so much more than what he could have ever hoped for. He’s still  _ happy _ . He has a friend. He half-grins at the cockade that’s still there, hooked into his old jumper. It’s fine. He can do with a friend. 

 

He hears the front door click shut as he starts to climb down the stairs, hands in his pockets in the vain hope the reddened tender spots will disappear by the time they sit down to eat.

  
  


“You should have waited for me, lass, I would’ve paid,” he calls out as he sees her walk into the living-room - he thinks it’s the deliverer that’s just gone, unaware that barely fifteen minutes have passed since she ordered. “How much do I owe... “

  
  


He stops dead in his tracks when he realizes she’s not alone in the living-room. It’s probably the last person he expected to see here, and definitely the last person he wants to see here. Royle strides towards him, glares at him, bares his teeth, and before he can react this contemptuous man grabs him by the collar of his jumper and throws his fist against his jaw. It’s been a long time since anyone punched his face, and the pain that radiates through  his skin and his bones is a painful - and rather unwelcome - reminder of what it feels like. 

 

The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, as if he’s just chewed on a piece of aluminium foil, some dribbles down his chin, soaks the meshes of his wool jumper.

  
  


“Why did you do this, dirty piece of shit?” Royle spits at his face, ready to make the most of his confusion and astonishment to hit him again. “Wasn’t the suspension enough? You’re a bloody bastard, Hardy, my wife’s left because of you! Stupid dipshit, I should…”

“You should do nothing and calm the fuck down.”

  
  


He’s still a bit stunned, Royle’s words are still ringing in his ears, stars are still floating lazily in his peripheral vision, and he only takes a step back when the hold on his jumper finally loosens. All he sees, in a drowsed state of half-awareness, is Rose catch Royle’s wrist and pin his arm behind his back with a quick and precise movement she’s probably mastered over the course of her career. She makes him sit down in an armchair and one hard and loud click of her tongue is enough to make him understand he’d better not move if he doesn’t want to end with a broken arm. 

  
  


“You alright, Alec?” she asks him with a worried look that greatly contrasts with the furious pinch of her lips and the anger that haloes from her body.

“I, uh, aye,” he stutters a little - he wipes the blood from his face with the sleeve of his jumper and tries to make sense of it all, to no avail. “What the fuck just happened? What did I do?”

“Did you decide to paint slurs all over his house last night?” she demands, voice thick with the kind of authority that leaves no room to doubt the gravity of her question.

“What the fuck is this about?” he still feels compelled to ask with a humourless chuckle and a smirk dripping with venom.  “Are you even serious? Why the fuck...”

“Just answer the question, Hardy. Did you?”

“Of course I bloody didn’t,” he huffs - he doesn’t care that Royle wants to murder him with a death stare, what he cares about is the uncertainty that shines in her eyes, and dammit he shouldn’t be so livid she doubts him, but he is, and he resents her so much for that. “Do you really think I’d do something that stupid? Who ‘m I, king of the pillock tosser coppers? Well fuck you, and fuck this shit. I’m out.”

  
  


He wants to storm out of this sodding house, but against his best intentions, his feet only take him through the window pane and he finds himself in the back garden. Maybe because he’s too angry and too dazed to properly understand where he’s going. Probably because he wants to make sure she believes him before he leaves. He sits on the edge of the massive chest of drawers they’ve dragged there, laces his fingers over his knees, lets his feet dangle.  _ #1 FRIEND _ . 

 

He looks down at the cockade, sees one of the ribbons that’s starting to fray, the stain of blood soaking the patch of yellow. He lets saliva gather in his mouth, rinses his tongue and the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, and spits as much blood as he can on the grass.  _ My skinny arse _ , he thinks with an angry blow through his nose, rips the bloody ridiculous cockade from his jumper and carelessly shoves it in his pocket. He’s fucking Hardy tosser , he doesn’t wear hideous and stupid cockades that say dumb shit like  _ #1 FRIEND _ .

 

He hears them talk through the open window pane, but he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care. All he wants is to go back home and be lonely again. Better to be lonely than to be with people who can’t be trusted to trust back. He just waits for her, barely notices when the sound of their voices fade, barely hears her when she finally joins him.

 

His breath gets caught in his throat when she splays a hand on his shoulder, gentle. 

  
  


“I’m sorry, Alec,” she apologizes softly - he only answers with an indifferent sniff and crosses his arms over his chest, because he’s going to need more than that. “I shouldn’t have let him in. He came to apologize for what he said yesterday and he told me…”

“That I’m the bloody bastard who vandalized his pigpen ‘cause he was rude to you?” he finishes for her, words threaded with rancour, dark eyes staring at her, full of anger and disappointment. “And you believed him?”

“Of course I didn’t, Hardy, don’t be thick,” she rebuts, fierce, almost scandalized, as she walks around to sit next to him. “I had to ask, you know it as well as I do. I sent him to the station so he can file a complaint, and I told him he’d better not say you’re a suspect ‘cause I’ll suspend him another month for bum rap.”

“You could have warned me he was there. You could have stopped him.”

“I didn’t know he’d run to you like that, or I would have. He’s not a bad guy, he probably didn’t expect things to escalate like that. He showed me the pictures, the poor bloke’s house was covered in red, words like  _ wanker  _ and  _ misogynist  _ and  _ you’ll go to Hell.  _ He found a dead piglet in his backyard, for God’s sake, try to understand him.”

“Did you say dead piglet?” he frowns, unable to ignore the obvious link between the piglet and the chicken she found beheaded on her porch - that’s not a good link, he thinks, rather dark omen, even.

“I know, hard not to see a pattern here,” she sighs as she gently cups his cheek and reaches for the wet sponge she’s brought along. “It clicked for me, too. I’ll just wait for my furniture and go to the station. Might want to call local farms, ask around if any of their animals have been disappearing.”

  
  


He hisses through his teeth when she rubs her wet sponge over his sore jaw and chin to wipe the dried blood. Despite the warmth of her hand and her careful movements, the tender flesh still hurts more than he remembers it should. 

  
  


“You might want to call Ms Adams, first,” he tells her after she gives his face one last thorough swipe of her sponge.

  
  


He sees the blood that drips from the sponge as she wrings it, and if he wasn’t so grimfully conflicted by his feelings, he might have made a comment like,  _ I like it better when I’m the one washing blood off your face _ . But he doesn’t, because Rose, she doesn’t seem to understand just how much she’s wounded his pride. Maybe she never believed he could have done that bloody paintwork, but he saw it. She doubted him. It might have been for just a second, but it was a second too much. He doesn’t give his trust that easily, and when he gives it, it’s never given back. He tries to be nice, he ends up with a bruised jaw and crippled ego. That’ll teach him. He’s better off being a lonely tosser.

 

He scrunches up his nose and swallows a grunt when she runs a clean towel over his face to dry the remaining droplets of water, accidentally pressing too hard on his jaw.

  
  


“I got arnica cream, but with that scruff of yours it’s no use,” she says with a small shrug, giving the side of his face a caress with the back of her fingers - he hates her for doing that, because she’s soft and warm and gentle, she’s trying to enchant him again with her sweet spells, and darn, it’s almost working.

“So what, you want me to shave? You’re gonna lend me some wax so you can rip it off?”

“Always so dramatic, Hardy,” she chuckles, ruffling his fringe with her fingertips. “No, I love your scruff, it looks good on you. And it’ll hide the bruise, so there’s that. Might want to get some paracetamol though, that’s gonna hurt for a while. So, who’s Ms Adams?”

“An old lady that lives five mile east in the middle of a corn field,” he answers as she shuffles closer next to him and her hand finds its way to his thigh - it’s not the hand that makes him shiver, it’s just the breeze. “She’s been calling me for weeks about her bloody chickens. She’s a bit mad, though, so it might have nothing to do with it.”

“Mad, as in? Alzheimer or something?”

“Oi, watch your tongue, my mother has Alzheimer,” he tells her before he can stop the words from tumbling down his tongue - great, now he not only sounds angry, but bitter and offended as well. “Nevermind, ‘s just… I’d never qualify someone who has a mental illness as  _ mad _ .”

“‘m sorry, Alec, I didn’t know.”

“No, that’s alright, it’s just… What I meant is, she’s annoying as fuck and she likes to waste everyone’s time. She’s just a massive pain in the arse I can’t get rid of, she makes me feel like I’m sitting on a bloody cactus everytime she calls. But she did tell me one of her chickens was missing yesterday. Might be worth looking into it.”

“Good, at least we have somewhere to start.”

  
  


A loud series of knocks echo inside the living-room, and she slaps his thigh, gives his shoulder a gentle shove with that big smile spread over her features. He likes this smile.

  
  


“I think that’s your salad, Mister Low-Fat. Come on, I’m  _ starving _ .”

  
  


She hurries to take his hand and tug on it to drag him across to the front door. He’s still angry. But he likes to hold her hand, so he doesn’t let go.

 

* * *

 


	10. Cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: NSFW

* * *

 

 

“Not so fast, Hardy, I’m the one backwards here!” she scolds him between grunts and growls.

“I told you we should have switched sides,” he grunts back as an answer - he almost loses his hold on the thick plastic wrapped around her new mattress, and a jolt of pain scampers up his lower back. “Just hurry, darnit!”

“Steer left, would ya, I can’t manoeuver it through the door at that angle!”

“Aye, and go over the balustrade? Just bend it, woman, it’s a bloody mattress!”

“I don’t have enough leverage to bend it, that thing’s taller than me! And stop grumping, Hardass, you offered your help remember?”

“Are you holding it properly?” he asks - he tries not to sound too gruff, tries not to let his pain and tiredness coat his words with thick exasperation, but it seems he fails miserably.

“What d’you think I’m doing over here, filing my nails or something?”

“ _ Are you _ ?”

“Yes, for Heaven’s sake,  _ I am holding it properly _ .”

“Then bloody say it when I ask! I’m coming to your left, move over, but don’t let go, aye?”

“I don’t have the IQ of a bloody oyster, Hardy!” she shoots back as he starts to climb the remaining few steps up the stairs, his short nails scraping against the plastic, his moist palms adhering as well as they could over it.

  
  


He winces when the heavy mattress slowly begins to tilt down and hurries to join her, clutching the makeshift handle cut into the plastic. He motions with his head and a grunt to pull, gives a quick nod she seems to understand, and they both pull hard at the same time. At last, the sodding mattress is saved from tumbling down the stairs and ruining their joined efforts that have been gnawing at their nerves and wearing their self-control thin for the past fifteen minutes. 

  
  


“C’mon, last push,” he says through a loud exhale - no, he won’t tell her his pacemaker is playing tricks on him again, and he won’t tell her his back might very well be hurting more than when the darned horse stepped on him.

“Last  _ pull _ ,” she corrects with a grin, nudging his ribs with her elbow. “But you got your point across. The next batch of furniture only gets delivered next Friday, if that can make you feel better.”

“Good, by then you’ll hate me and you’ll have made everyone one in this bloody town your number one friend.”

  
  


They finally manage to pull the mattress into the large upstairs room she’s decided will be her bedroom with an en suite bathroom, let it fall down with a loud whoosh of air and a dull thump. His back is hurting, his pacemaker struggling to keep his heart beating fast enough to oxygenate his muscles made all quivery by the tremendous efforts moving all those boxes and that bloody mattress demanded. So, he decides to plop down on his knees, then face down on the plastic, and growls his relief mixed with fatigue through his nose.

 

He feels the mattress dip on his side and cracks an eye open to see her there, lying next to him, arching her back to soothe the pain that’s probably pulling on her spine, too. He tries not to look at the smooth expense of her abdomen revealed by the tee-shirt that’s riding up her sides, not to look at her breasts defined under the thin material, thin enough to see the black of the sports bra she’s wearing underneath. 

 

Well, bollocks. He looks, just for a second or two. Long enough to remember how she looks like under those clothes, and God, he feels like a randy teenager who wants to touch and squeeze and lick. If only she weren’t so gorgeous, that perfect balance between muscles and supple forms…

  
  


“I don’t think I can ever hate you,” she tells him with a soft smile, rolling on the side to prop her head on her palm and look at him with an innocence that makes his erotic train of thoughts derail instantaneously.

“What makes you so sure?” he asks - he also want to ask why she has to be so handsy with him when she reaches with her hand to brush his fringe away from his forehead, but because he likes it, he doesn’t say anything. “You’ve known me three days, lass.”

“I’m good at reading people, I guess.”

“Aye, well if you’ve read me and still like me, you must have missed a chapter or two, Tyler.”

“Can’t say I’ve read the full book yet,” she smirks, poking his side with a fingertip. “But what I’ve read so far… I like it.”

“Don’t read the end, then,” he grins back - just as he shifts to lay on his side and face her, she rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. “You’ll be disappointed.”

“What makes you so sure?” she borrows his question, her voice soft, almost wondering, almost as if he’s not meant to answer that question but rather to ponder. 

  
  


He looks at her, at her face, eyes closed and lips drawn into a small smile, and a treacherous feeling worms its way through his stomach. He’s struck by her sheer charm. He’s never seen her that way, before, never looked at her that way, before. He knew she was attractive by pretty much any man’s - and probably some woman’s - standards, the kind of fatal beauty with blond hair and full lips and confidence that can’t leave anyone indifferent. 

 

But he sees her, now, and he doesn’t think she is that kind of woman. It’s not about how beautiful she looks - while she does, there’s no mistaking that, she’s one of the most beautiful woman he’s ever met. But no. It’s about the other sort of beautiful he sees, when she pokes her tongues out at the corner of her lips, when she finally turns her head to look at him with that smile. When she twines her fingers with his and brings his hand to her sternum to cradle it into her own. 

  
  


“Look at that, Alec,” she whispers, her eyes full of amazement and joy travelling around the room. “Look at it.”

  
  


So he does. He stops looking at her beauty and looks around. All he sees are the piles of white cardboard boxes they’ve carried into that room, the white ceiling, the sky blue wall on one side, the night blue wall on the other, the white floating floor covered in dust and mud they’ve brought back from the garden. Not quite as enticing as  _ her _ . 

 

It’s bare, empty, so empty the sound of their voices resonates and echoes all around them. It’s rancid, reeking of fresh paint he can see hasn’t dried yet in some places. It’s big, too big for only one person, he believes, and he’s sure it’s going to feel very lonely and cold when she’s in here on her own. He tries to see what she sees, tries to understand why she’s over the moon to be there, in an empty room that stinks, on that fat mattress still protected by its sheet of plastic,  _ with him _ to cap it all off.

 

His arm tenses on its own when she tugs on his hand and brings his fingers to her lips. He should definitely tell her, he doesn’t like handsy people, he should free his hand, roll over, get away before his thoughts and feelings spin out of control.

  
  


“It’s all mine,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against his knuckles.

  
  


There’s that look in her eyes, those tiny tremors in her own fingers. She’s so fascinated by all of it that he can’t bring himself to pull out the stars from her eyes and break the spell. She’s so…  _Adorable_ \- he hates the word, but he can’t find any other word that encompasses both her beauty and her childish amazement. So adorable, then, that he simply can’t bring himself to deny her this moment of wonder, wherever the wonder comes from. 

  
  


“This is mine, Alec,” she repeats - he lets the pad of his thumb caress the underside of her lower lip, lets his body shift closer to her, and God he should really get away now.

“Aye,” he whispers - he wants to add a snarky comment because the atmosphere is getting really heavy, and he has a reputation to uphold, and wasn’t he supposed to be cross with her anyway?

“I’ve never had a bedroom before,” she continues, and he continues to try to remember he’s cross with her - to no avail. “This is the first that’s properly  _ mine _ .”

“How come?” he asks, because the words come out of his mouth faster than his brain can conjure up  the words she told him two nights before - he bites the inside of his cheek, prays he hasn’t just committed an awful blunder.

“Oh, you know, between the orphanage and the foster families, the military and the MIs, I’ve never really settled down anywhere long enough to have  _ my  _ bedroom. And I’ve never really had a proper mattress either, so I’m absolutely dying to spend a full night with this beauty.”

“That why you bought crap Ikea furniture but invested the bloody Crown Jewels in this mattress?” he smirks to lighten the mood that’s grown just a wee bit heavier. “It’s good for my back, mind.”

  
  


He doesn’t know how or why his arm is now resting across her waist, but he doesn’t know any better why she’s letting him - surely she hasn’t noticed, too lost in her contemplation. He feels that odd feeling again. He feels happy. Happy, and something else, something that flits in his stomach and darts through his whole system, something raw, something long forgotten that’s come to life faster than his pacemaker can shoot electricity through his heart. It’s there, deep, and it’s this feeling that’s brought his arm around her, he’s sure of it now. He feels protective of her. Not because she needs it, she’s made that pretty clear by now. But because  _ he  _ needs it. 

 

It’s like a craving he has to wrap his body around hers and shield her from the outside world that’s been so tough on her. It’s like a longing to hug her close, have the solid weight of her body in his arms, share her warmth and give her comfort.

 

Maybe it would be wise to stop doing  _ that  _ with his fingers on her bare hip, drawing random shapes and marvelling at the softness of her skin. And it would probably be wise to stop bringing his face closer to hers, so close his nose is almost brushing against her cheek. Especially since it seems everything he does to her, she mirrors it and does it to him. Or so the warm fingers he feels on his own hip and the whiskey eyes that suddenly look close, very close, so close he can see the intricate maze of deep brown and bright caramel in her irises, point to. 

  
  


“Sorry about your back,” she offers in a whisper that rolls over his chin and makes him want to swallow her breaths. “And your jaw. That’s probably more than what you bargained for. Are you alright?”

“I’m, er... Conflicted,” is his answer, because he doesn’t want to say _ sod off _ , and that’s the only other honest answer he can think of.

“Conflicted? How do you mean?”

“Remember I told you I don’t want people to like me?”

“I think so, yes,” she frowns, her little fingers loitering up his side to settle over one of the fasteners of his brace. “Why? What does this have to do with your back?”

  
  


He wants to say the ache in him has nothing to do with his back or his jaw or his shite heart, he wants to say it’s not his arrhythmia that’s making his heart clench painfully in his chest, he wants to say it’s not his vertebrae that cause his body to stiffen. It’s a deep ache, a storm swirling in the pit of his stomach, a tornado of feelings he’s so unused to he doesn’t know what to do with it

 

He just wants to tell her,  _ I don’t want people to like me, but you’re not  _ people. But he can’t. He remembers he’s not supposed to like her, he remembers she’s not supposed to like him. They’re not supposed to share more than this friendship, this whatever thing is going on between them, because the implications are too complicated, the would-be consequences too dangerous.

 

He can’t tell her he’s conflicted because of her and everything she makes him feel. He can’t.

  
  


“Nothing,” he shrugs after he clears his throat, falling on his back so she can’t enchant him with her eyes. “Nevermind, Tyler, just forget I ever said that.”

“No, Alec, what did you mean?” she insists - and it was a horrible idea to fall on his back,  because now she hovers over him, half-sprawled over his chest, a loose strand of blond hair tickling his neck, a hand cupping his cheek. “What are you conflicted about? I don’t understand. You know you can talk to me. Maybe I can help with whatever’s troubling you.”

“I said forget it, Tyler. There’s nothing I want to talk about, especially not with you.”

“Oh, come on, Alec, I…”

“I told you to stop calling me Alec,” he interrupts through a grunt, tugging her hand away from his face - because being rude and blunt is the only defense mechanism he fully masters. “Stop pretending you want to be my friend, Tyler.”

“I want to be a friend to you, Alec,” she says softly, seemingly unaffected by his rather gruff manners - of course, she keeps using his name, it’s not like he has any power over her. “You are a friend to me.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” he snorts - she just has to add insult to mockery, hasn’t she? “Me, forty-three year old tosser copper who looks like a broken corpse, I’m a friend to you?”

“Oh, for God’s… Stay here, be back in a tick.”

“Oi, I asked…”

  
  


He raises on his elbows to watch her disappear through the door, hears her hurried footsteps down the stairs. It doesn’t take long before she hurries back to the bedroom, and his eyebrows knit in confusion when she lies back down next to him with a tongue-touched grin and gently sits a stuffed animal on his chest. He thinks it’s a dog, but it’s so old and worn he can’t be sure. It has fluffy furrowed eyebrows over a single eye - the second one is missing - and he’d be tempted to say it looks rather grumpy if it weren’t so ironic. Is that what she wants, compare him to a bloody plush toy that looks as old and as broken as he is? Oh, he doesn’t like where this whole thing is headed to.

 

She pats his small head, still smiling, and he lifts his eyes to the ceiling when she pats his thick fringe of copper hair.

  
  


“That’s Cuddles,” she tells him, unaware that he’s already shaking his head with a grimace. “He was my first friend. We were brought into that charity shop by Ms Roberts once, she told us we could pick anything we wanted that didn’t cost more than two quid. The others told me I was a big baby to choose a plush, but I didn’t care. He was already old then, it smelled  _ really  _ bad, it was dirty and kinda ugly to be honest. But he was alone on the shelf, only worth fifty p. I thought he was like me, so I picked him to be my friend. You wanna know something?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway,” he sighs as she turns the plush toy around and points to a small hook-and-loop fastener sewn into the grey fur of its back.

“Found a twenty quid bill in that pouch,” she grins proudly - he can’t really help it, he feels the corners of his lips twitch into the sketch of a smile.

“Of course you did. Well go on, say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m like your Cuddles. That I’m a curmudgeon who looks like shit, but that I have a bloody wealth of goodness up my arse or something.”

“That’s the idea,” she giggles before she shoves the stuffed dog against his nose - he’s thankful it now smells of laundry detergent, and just a bit like her. “You’re handsome, though. And you’re not a curmudgeon. You can fool a lot of people with that grumpy face of yours, but you can’t fool me. You’re actually a decent and attractive man.”

“Aye, look at me, so handsome and compassionate,” he rolls his eyes, voice full of sarcasm - she should probably wear her glasses more often if she can’t see just how  _ un _ attractive he is now. “I don’t know what you want from me, Tyler, but if it’s money and you expect me to be your sugar daddy, sorry to disappoint, I’m broke.”

  
  


He waits for her to laugh again, to tease him, to sigh in defeat, to do anything that would put and end to that preposterous and futile conversation. All he wants is for her to acknowledge he’s not decent, nor handsome, so he can go back to being the grump he likes to be, without friends, without feelings. Friends and feelings are never worth the deluge of troubles they always bring with them. 

 

But then she cups his cheek, nestles her chin in the upper valley of his clavicle - again, he should really tell her he doesn’t want to be touched that way, because it’s getting really uncomfortable. Especially when she looks at him with that face, painted with something akin to pity he doesn’t need nor deserve, and those eyes in the shadow of her concerned frown, sparkling with a tenderness he doesn’t want nor accept.

  
  


“You really believe you’re an ugly curmudgeon, don’t you?” she asks softly - and he’s struck hard by the sincere disbelief woven through her voice. “People put that idea in your head and you’ve started to believe it. I thought it was your idea of a running gag, the way you keep calling yourself a tosser. But you really believe you are, don’t you?”

“I don’t  _ believe  _ I am, I just am,” he shrugs, not really afflicted by what he thinks -  _ knows  _ \- to be a fact. “I have a short temper, a tendency to be rude and rough and I’m asocial. You should know that already, you’ve witnessed it first hand.”

“What, that you’re rude when someone nags you? That you get angry when someone does or says something you don’t agree with, or you think is unfair, something that hurts you? Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

“See?” he offers along with a sad grin of victory.

“What I see is a man who’s rude like everyone can be and a man who gets angry like everyone can get. It’s called being human, Hardy. What, you thought you were special or something? Sorry to break it to you, but you’re just a normal bloke. You can stop with the  _ I’m a tosser _ horseshit, now. It doesn’t suit you anyway.”

“I’ve been rude to you and got angry more times than I can recount with you, just over three days,” he points out with a sour curl of his lips. “Don’t tell me that’s normal behaviour, especially from someone you consider to be your friend.”

“Well, you sure have a shorter temper than most, I grant you that,” she concedes, her chin digging deeper into his shoulder for a second under her nod, her thumb tracing the light swell of his cheekbone. “But that’s not the only thing that defines you, Alec. If people asked me about you, that’s definitely not the first thing that would come to my mind.”

“Oh, what would, then?” he feels compelled to ask despite the urge he’s starting to feel to get out of her arms, of that room, of that house, because he asks but he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

  
  


Before he can say or do anything, she throws her leg to straddle his waist, locks his face between her warm little hands, hovers over him. God, she’s so beautiful like this, with that smile on her lips and that cheeky glint in her eyes, with that collar of her tee-shirt drooping just enough to steal a few glances at what’s underneath, with that tongue peeking out of her grin as she ponders where to start. She’s a temptress, that he already knows, but it seems her powers are finely tuned to make the walls built around his feelings vibrate at the perfect frequency to make them crack and crumble. 

 

She shifts her hips over him, with no other intent than fit her legs more comfortably around his hips, and he has to swallow a grunt when the zip of his jeans press deliciously - no, not deliciously,  _ bothersomely  _ \- against his burgeoning erection. This isn’t supposed to be erotic. He’s made the mistake once, he can’t make it twice. This is a conversation between friends, he has to remind himself, not some kind of foreplay, but then why the Hell is she rolling her hips again and giving him that sensual smile again and tilting her head to the side as if she’s inviting his lips to join hers? She doesn’t know what she’s doing to him. She can’t know.

 

She rolls her hips,  _ again _ , bring her mouth close to his. The minx. She knows. Of course she knows, she feels it now, the hardness straining against the coarse material of his tight jeans. The more he tries to tame it, the more he thinks about it, the more he feel her weight on his crotch, the less he can tame it. He shouldn’t have asked the bloody question.

  
  


“I would say,” she starts in a whisper, the kind of intimate whisper that is suitable neither between friends nor colleagues - her breath that coats his chin with heat and her hand that travels down his side to clutch his hip only fuel the desire he’s trying to smother. “That you are one of the nicest man I’ve ever met. That you’re helpful and considerate. Kind, selfless.”

“Oh, would you, now?”

  
  


Her thumb has slipped under his tee-shirt now, and its soft pad id drawing circles over the beginning of the slight hollowed curve that leads to the juncture of his leg. He catches her wrist into a tight hold, tries to tell her she shouldn’t with a slow shake of his head, because she’s burning his skin and the flames are licking their way down to his groin. She seems to agree, her hand stills, but he realizes she has other tricks up her sleeves to drive him barmy.

  
  


“I would say,” she continues, spreading her legs further apart so more of her weight can rub against his length - he hopes she doesn’t hear his growl low in his throat, hopes she’s going to stop with her teasing but hopes she won’t all at the same time. “That you’re a good bloke, with a strong sense of justice and a certain penchant for…  _ Rectitude _ ?”

  
  


He almost misses her smirk when she rises on her knees and her free hand reaches behind her to cup the bulge between his legs, and his eyes flutter shut for a moment. She runs the heel of her hand over his hardness once, twice, enough for his arse to contract and his hips to rise ever so slightly. No way he can convince her - or even himself - that he’s not affected by what she’s doing to him, now. She knows. She’s known all along. The low moan that seethes between his clenched teeth is the only permission she needs.

 

Her fingers unbutton his jeans, pull his fly down, and that gives her just enough space to slide her hand over his boxers and the hard length that twitches underneath. Fuck, he shouldn’t, definitely shouldn’t, it’s a bad, very bad idea, but he eagerly crosses the last of the distance between their mouths when she bends to kiss him. It’s not a snog, it’s a kiss. Soft, slow, tender. He parts his lips to groan when her fingers finds their way under the waistband of his boxers and her tongue seizes the opportunity to meet his. It doesn’t last as long as he would have hoped, not even a minute until she breaks the kiss, but maybe it’s better this way.

  
  


“I would also say you’re handsome,” she tells him, softly, before she slides down his legs and replaces her lips on his with the fingers he’s released. “Gorgeous. Insecure and lacking confidence, no doubt, but gorgeous nonetheless. So fucking gorgeous, I just want to…”

  
  


His brain is drowning in a cocktail of lust and desire and affection, and he doesn’t understand what she means straight away, even as he watches her hands pull down his boxers and jeans, even as he feels her teeth nip the soft skin at the juncture of his leg. When he does understand, it’s already too late.

  
  


“Fuck,” he rasps just as her warm hand wraps around his hard base and the tip of her tongue licks at his tip. “Lass, I don’t… I won’t… You shouldn’t…”

  
  


What little is left of his coherence is lost through a growl, a sigh, another curse. Oh, he’s not conflicted any longer, and even if he were, he’s not sure he would have done anything to stop her. He doesn’t try to fight his desire and simply lets it sweep his thoughts and feelings away into a storm that makes his every muscle quiver. He breathes hard, or maybe he’s not breathing at all, difficult gasps going down his throat without reaching his lungs. Her hot mouth slides down, her soft cheeks hollow around him, her tongue traces the underside of his erection. 

 

His fingers tangle in her hair and guide her slow movements, some of her fingers scurry under his tee-shirt to find a nipple to tease, some others, more gentle, more tender, brush soothing shapes over the coarse hair that thins up to is navel. She looks up to meet his eyes, and what he sees doesn’t make any sense. She looks… Happy. The same happy he felt earlier, the kind of tranquil and comforting happiness. Could he be the one to make her feel that? A surge of affection courses through him and gathers in his loins, so violent and pure his hard length throbs in tandem with the desperate beating of his heart. 

  
  


“ _ Lass _ ,” he manages to warn a mere second before he chokes on a breath.

“‘S okay, Alec,” she smiles at him with a fondness that does very little to slow down the ardor of his desire. “Let yourself be beautiful, for once.”

  
  


He has no idea idea what she means, but then her mouth is on him all over again and he can’t bring himself to care. He lets his body abandon its sovereignty to properly feel everything she’s doing to him, to properly surrender to the last thread of his control. Her lips are tighter around his cock, her mouth faster, more eager, and it’s accompanied by a tight pull of her fingers every time it sucks its way up. The coil of his arousal is ready to snap, and he encourages her with delicate tugs on her hair and low grunts, drawled moans,  _ yes _ ,  _ faster _ ,  _ harder _ .

 

His cheeks inflame when his ears catch the obscene sound of suction and wet slaps that resonate against the bare walls, soon joined by the creaking of the plastic under his rutting hips and scratching nails. It only serves to hurry things along. He jerks his hips up at the same time she flattens her tongue to twirl it around his head, at the same time she tightens her fingers around his base, and the overload of pleasure gets the better of him. He comes into her mouth, silently because he couldn’t breathe in enough air to fuel a curse, his hard length pulsating with each powerful wave of his release.

 

She takes his hand, slowly brings him down the steep slope that follows the aftermath, lets her lips linger on his thigh for almost a minute - or maybe ten, maybe more, all he knows is that she’s kissing his thigh and caressing his knuckles and he feels… Reassured. Reassured that it’s something they’re both sharing, not something she did solely to prove her point without any kind of emotional attachment. She’s here, with him. Entirely, wholly with him.

  
  


“Are you alright, Alec?” she asks softly as she takes off her tee-shirt and uses it to clean his softening member with slow and careful movements.

“Aye, think so,” he nods, voice reduced to a quiet, peaceful sigh. “Come up here, lass. Cuddles needs a cuddle.”

“Oh my, is Alec Hardy  _ finally  _ embracing his good side?” she teases with a grin, pulling his boxers and jeans up his hips before she falls on his side and wraps an arm around him. “I thought it would take a bit more convincing. Fine, one cuddle, but then we need to get to the station, remember?”

“Five minutes, lass. Just five minutes.“

  
  


* * *

 


	11. Goldfish

* * *

 

 

A  _ cuddle _ . He tries to remember the last time he cuddled, hugged or got physically close to anyone - no, he does not include the period of the last three days over which he’s gotten a lifetime fill of human contact. And the thing is, he can’t remember. A vague memory of sharing a bed with his ex-wife, not so long before they got a divorce, maybe. And even then, it had just been a short post-coital embrace that had lasted barely long enough to call it a cuddle. Even the sex had been… Well,  _ sex _ . Meaningless, void of any kind of feelings but anger and frustration. Just a way to diffuse the bomb for a few more days, though he always knew it was bound to explode at some point. Just an excuse, to pretend everything was still alright, as if a shag could solve all their problems. No. He can’t remember. There’s nothing to remember.

 

And here he is, energy fizzing in his blood, lethargy weighing on his muscles, an odd contrast of opposing forces that leave him dozing off with this beautiful nymph in his arms. 

 

She’s playing with his hair, rolling a strand around her fingers, she’s playing with his scruff, lightly scratching the line of his jaw. Sprawled over him, head on his shoulder, leg thrown across his waist, whole body pressed flush against him. 

 

He’s playing with her blond hair, tickling his own nose just for the pleasure to smell her sweet perfume, he’s playing with the thin silver ring on her finger - on the hand that’s playing with his scruff, because when that hand strays too far away from his face, he can pull it back and splay it more fully over his cheek. Lying down on that mattress, chin nestled on the top of her head, an arm loosely wrapped around her waist and a hand caressing a slow back and forth on the swell of her arse.

 

He could get used to this. He could, and he almost is, in a way, but he won’t. He can’t. He doesn’t know what they have going on. He just knows it can’t be more than friends. With good, very good benefits by the look of things, but it can’t be more. She’s so young. She’s his boss. And so bloody young. She wasn’t even born yet he almost was an adult already. He winces at that awkward thought and hurries to shake it out his head.

 

If they’d met under different circumstances, at a different place, at a different time, maybe he would have considered more. Because she makes him feel better - better about himself, better as a person in general. He feels like she’s pulling on the rope that attaches him to humanity, giving him an anchor in that world he’s only watched from afar for the last few years. He feels like he belongs. He feels human.

 

The longer he’s going to stay here, in her arms, the harder it will be to cut the ties that binds him to her. So, he presses his lips on her hair, one last time, lets her smell fill his lungs, one last time, gives her bum a squeeze, one last time. And he gently pushes her away.

  
  


“I need to go home, have a shower,” he bluntly says as he sits upright and buttons up his jeans. “Get changed, too. I’ll meet you back at the station, aye?”

“You don’t have to, you know,” she answers with a weak shrug - he’s relieved she doesn’t feel like he’s rejecting her, relieved she doesn’t protest, only follows when he gets on his feet. “It’s just a few phone calls, won’t take that long anyway.”

“Nothing better to do,” he tells her, doing his best to ignore they’ve gone full professional attitude and she’s still standing there in her bra. “And Ms Adams knows me, I’ll probably get more from her than you can. I’ll just… Oh, sorry.”

  
  


He reaches into his pocket to fetch his ringing phone and see the name that flashes on the screen. _Daisy_. He’s been trying to call her for ages, left several voicemails, sent texts, but only ever received a few _okay_ s and _can’t talk to your right now_ in return. He knows he hasn’t exactly been the dad of the century with his precious daughter, so he does his best to understand why she won’t talk to him. Still, understanding doesn’t make the pain any better. He misses her, his little girl - who isn’t so little any longer, it only was two weeks ago he had to send her a birthday card with a big _17_ printed on the front. Maybe she was calling to say thank you? 

  
  


“‘Llo darling,” he greets as he picks up, offering a small smile of apology to Rose who bats her hand dismissively. “How are you? Received my card yet? Happy birthday, by the way. Can’t believe my baby’s so grown up already.”

“Ya, hey Dad,” she answers on the other hand of the line - why does she sound so nervous, so distant? “Thanks for the card. ‘S not what I’m calling, though, I just… Can I borrow ten thousand quid?”

“What?” he blinks, then frowns, then raises his eyebrows, not sure he’s heard that one quite right.

“It’s for the tuition fees, alright, I need ten thousand quid to pay for uni. You never do anything for me, the least you could do is pay for my education, right?”

“Dais’, I don’t… Alright, give the phone to your Mum.”

“Dad…”

“Give the phone to your Mum right now, Dais’, I know she’s hanging over you like a bat, just give her the bloody phone. I’ll call you back later, darlin’, and you’d better answer. Love you.”

  
  


As he waits, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor and running a hand angrily through his hair, Rose slips between him and the doorway. She gives his chest a quick caress of her fingertips, gives him a small smile of encouragement and mouths that she’ll be in the shower if he needs her. He’s thankful she doesn’t linger around to listen to that conversation - at least some people still have the common decency to respect his privacy.

  
  


“Tess,” he growls a greeting - just the sound of her own greeting is enough to make his eyes roll and his fist clench on his side. “Ten thousand quid, hey? Tell me more, would you?”

“What can I say, Alec, uni’s expensive and I can’t be the only one to financially support our daughter.”

“The only one… Fuck, Tess, I’ve been paying twice the child maintenance I should be since the divorce, I’ve left you with the house  _ I  _ paid for, the cars, half my savings, and  _ I _ should pay for her education, too? Where do you want me to find ten thousand quid, I can barely pay for my own expenses every month!”

“You’re her Dad, Alec, that’s just your responsibility as a her father,” she says with the kind of unbearable matter-of-fact and know-it-all voice he hates.

“Oh, because now I’m her Dad?” he chortles humourlessly. “Funny how I’m only her Dad when it suits you, witch.”

“When was the last time you showed any interest in what she’s doing at school, Alec? Do you even know what A-Levels she’s doing? What’s the name of her college, or her friends?”

“How would I, Tess? She never calls, never texts. The last time I had a proper conversation with my daughter about her future, she was in primary and she told me she wanted to be Princess of Candyland!”

“Well, just so you know, she’s doing sciences. She wants to submit an application to Exeter for a bachelor’s in marine biology, thus the ten thousand quid.”

“Can’t she apply for a bursary or a scholarship?” he asks, just in case they hadn’t considered that option yet. “If not, she’ll just have to contract a student loan, because I don’t shite money, Tess. I left you with more than enough money to pay for her studies, Hell, enough that she could do a bloody Doctorate at Oxford. Care to tell me what happened to that money?”

“I know you think I’m a selfish bitch, Alec, but  _ surprise _ !” she almost joyfully exclaims - though the heavy sigh that follows clearly points to her annoyment. “Most of that money is on a blocked account, under  _ her _ name, and no one can touch that money until she turns eighteen. The thing is, we need to pay that university upfront or her application won’t be considered. Can’t we do half-half, at the very least?”

“That’s still five thousand I can’t give you, Tess,” he says, and the not-quite-but-still-there apologetic note in his words doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them. “I had to contract a loan to pay for my pacemaker surgery, the NHS wouldn’t endorse the whole of it. That, with the rent, the life insurance that’s soared because I’m a walking accident waiting to happen, and all the rest, I just can’t do it.”

“You had pacemaker surgery?” she asks - is she really sounding worried about his health? No, he must be imagining things. She’s wanted him nailed into a casket and buried deep in the middle of Antarctica for years. No bloody way she cares. “Well, glad you made it out. Couldn’t you be  _ at least  _ half-arsed to let me know you went under the knife?”

“It was painful enough as it was, thank you very much. Look, I just don’t have the money, you’ll have to find another way. If you’d told me sooner, or if Dais’ was actually half-arsed to call me more often and talked to me about it, maybe I could’ve done something. But right now, I can't pull a string of notes out of my arse, so unless I start pissing gold, I can’t help you.”

“Fine, student loan it is, then. Daisy won’t be so happy about it, but… I’ll just make sure she understands she can’t blame you. Won’t tell her about the pacemaker, though.”

“Aye, better not,” he nods, relieved that he won’t have to deal with that shitstorm just yet. “Thanks for that, Tess. I forgot you could be a decent human being when you want to be.”

“Dais’ is your daughter, too, Alec,” she sighs, and he almost hears her shrug. “I don’t want her to hate you more than she already does. What happened… It wasn’t fair on you. I’ll call you whenever we work our way around this, and I’ll tell her to call you more often. Gotta go, but I’ll keep in touch. Bye, Alec.”

“Aye, talk to you later.”

  
  


He stares at his phone screen for a moment, a bit surprised by the rather pleasant note the conversation ended on. Not that he’s called his ex-wife much in the past few years, but the few sparse occasions were more along the lines of blasphemous bouts of cheap shots and abuses than cordial conversations. He’s not happy they’ve only called to suck him dry of what little money he’s left - he’s almost certain it was only a last resort, and he’s just as certain Tess must have spent copious amounts of time trying to get something out of his bank manager who happens to be hers as well. He’s not happy, but at least he’s been offered some hope to finally get to communicate more with his daughter. Just some hope, but it’s better than the discouragement and dejection that have prevented his fingers from dialing her number so many times. So much better. 

 

He hears the shower running at the end of the corridor, and he finds himself wondering if the tide - the bloody sea storm that’s been tearing his life apart for so long, rather - is turning. At last, his jinxed karma is showing some mercy. Maybe he does deserve another shot at something akin to happiness. Ah, there it is again. The feeling. But this time, he doesn’t fight it, doesn’t reject it, doesn’t think it odd, doesn’t try to find other words to qualify it. He’s happy. One friend and particularly good benefits, one chance to pick up the pieces and fix his disastrous relationship with his daughter, one case to open and an opportunity to polish his tarnished reputation. Everything is just…  _ Fine _ . 

 

He goes and knocks on the door to the bathroom - and no, he’s definitely not smiling alone and humming, Alec Hardy doesn’t smile and hum when he’s alone, even less when he could be caught doing that kind of namby-pamby, ridiculous things.

  
  


“What is it, Alec?” he hears her ask through the door, the sound of her energetic hair shampooing coming to a stop.

“I’m going back home, now, alright?” he answers loud enough to cover the loud rain of the shower. “Meet you back at the station in, say, forty minutes?”

“‘Kay. We’ll discuss payback later, Hardy, I’m not a volunteer for Age and I want the return on my investment!”

“I would have said I’m not a volunteer for Children in Need, but it’s a wee cringy, innit?”

“I didn’t hear that. Go away, Hardy, before I have to kick your skinny arse into an interrogation room for suspicious behaviour.”

“Fine,” he chuckles - why is he leaning against the door like that, why does he want to just go inside and the grin he’s sure lights her face? “See you, then.”

  
  


It doesn’t take long before he parks his car at the end of the long boardwalk that runs along the row of small beach chalets - same quiet town, same quiet streets, same quiet people, nothing ever takes long around here. He snatches his keys from the cup holder that has stopped welcoming his morning coffees since the surgery, sees the silver heart-shaped key ring that dangles at the end of the key. Christmas present from a then nine year-old daughter, with  _ Best Dad _ engraved on the back. He never used it. Not until the divorce, not until he was denied everything but a few weekends and holidays with his precious girl. Only then did this worthless key ring bought in a supermarket with the few pounds she had been given found its way to his keys. Bittersweet memory of a time when the engraving held a truth that's now lost its meaning.

 

He makes his way to his little house perched at the other end of the boardwalk, heart light and head in the clouds, miles away from any of the preoccupations that usually never fail to plague his mind and weigh on his nerves. He realizes he’s been grinning to himself when he feels his lips slowly morph back to their original moody pout. What he sees makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and the merry spring in his steps comes to a full stop.

 

He looks around, eyes reduced to thin slits as if it could make it easier to analyse his surroundings, see something or someone out of the ordinary. Nothing but the calm waves lapping at the pilotis, the soft wind making his neighbour’s flag flap. No one.

 

He blows a grunt through his nose and crouches down just a step away from his doorstep, takes out his phone and turns on the camera. He snaps a few photographs of the two dead goldfish lying side by side in a small puddle of water. 

  
  


“Can’t be a coincidence, this time,” he mutters under his breath as he stands to take a broader picture of the scene. 

  
  


There’s not much more he can do. The local police station has already seen its budget cut by half after the Latimer case, and he doesn’t deem it worthy to call for an investigation and forensics team for two small dead fish. And even if he had a goldmine open, what then? On what grounds could he build this case? Not animal cruelty, they already have the RSPCA to deal with that kind of crimes. Not harassment, it’s only happened once for now, nothing justifies taking out the big guns. Not murder, not contempt, obviously not home invasion. It’s worrying, of course, but unlawful? It feels more like the kind of crass joke rival neighbours would pull on each other than a crime or a serious offence endangering lives. 

 

So, he goes to open his door, makes a quick detour by his kitchen to get a tupperware, goes back to the fish and carefully puts them in his plastic box. Not much more he can do. He’s not even sure they’ll be considered demonstrative evidence - anecdotal, at best, and that’s if this case is ever taken to court and the fish aren’t completely rotten by then.

 

Shower had, too-large suit donned and tie knotted, he shoves his badge in his pocket, tucks his gun on his belt and his box under his arm. He barely has enough time to reach his car that his phone rings again - he reads her name and the smile that disappeared not so long ago comes back to life with an instantaneity that scares him a little.

  
  


“Miss me already, Tyler?” he teases, unlocking his car and falling on the driver’s seat.

“Professional mode engaged, Hardy,” she answers at the end of the line - and the severe tone of her voice leaves no doubts now is not the right time to joke. “I’m back at the station, and I got more bad news.”

“What kind of bad news?” he frowns as he lets his box of dead fish fall on the passenger seat and turns on the ignition.

“Ellie’s cat died an hour ago,” she sighs, and he doesn’t miss the anxiety laced through her words. “Heart attack, apparently. She had to go home, her kids were kinda panicking and the babysitter couldn’t handle it. Odd, isn’t it?”

“Aye, five dead animals, four cops… My guess is, it wasn’t a heart attack. Mister Jingles was young, for a cat, and Miller took good care of him, I think…”

“Wait, Hardy, five dead animals? Four cops?”

“Aye, found two goldfish on my doorstep. I was on my way to the vet, thought he could help figure out how they died. Or how they were killed. Whichever.”

“Miller’s gone to the vet, too, more for her kids’ benefit than the cat’s I believe,” she tells him - he hears the leather of her chair squeak, and he can only too well picture her leaning back, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, putting the buttons of her tight shirt to the test. “You’ll probably meet up there. I’ll be waiting for you at the station, we’re a bit short on staff today and we have quite a few calls to make. Don’t be too long.”

“Less than a half-hour. See you then, Tyler.”

 

* * *

 


	12. Limit

* * *

 

 

He has a nagging feeling. He’s not sure what kind of feeling precisely, but it’s there. Just a small weight in the pit of his stomach. An odd heat that sits on his shoulders and wraps an uncomfortable tail around his neck. A pair of eyes that’s been following his steps ever since he stepped out of the vet’s surgery. He’s made sure, several times, that no other shadow than his draws dark silhouettes on the pavement. He’s made sure, several times, that no ghost car appears in his rearview mirror. 

 

It must be instinct. The kind of ethereal knowledge, a delusional certainty that there’s more to all of it than dead fish. He tries to find a link between a couple of dead goldfish and other cases he’s worked on or heard about. Nothing rings a bell. No one’s ever cared about dead pet fish - when they die, they just get flushed down the toilet or buried in the garden to teach kids a lesson about life and death. But somehow, he cares. Not about the fish, really, but about what it all means. Maybe if it were just the fish, he would have thrown them into the sea and never spoken about them ever again. But then there’s Miller’s cat. Royle’s piglet. Tyler’s chicken. Over the span of two days, that’s a bit much to be a simple coincidence. Someone must be playing with them. A grudge against the police, maybe. 

 

The phone he keeps on his dashboard holder comes to life and short text pops up on the locked screen over a picture of his daughter - one he had to steal, because Daisy just hates to be photographed.

  
  


_ Meet me on the parking lot. _

  
  


He doesn’t know why, but he expected some kind of smiley face at the end of that message, or maybe a double  _ xo _ signature. The new CDI just seems to be that kind of person who likes to show how they’re feeling through a text message. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe she isn’t at all.

 

He doesn’t bother to text anything back because he’s less than a minute away from the station. He drives past a small square of grass, home to a playground with swings, seesaws and such - a square he usually avoids because, for unknown reasons, he can now barely bear the sound of playing kids, their merry shouts and happy laughs. He spots a kid that runs to his mother with what looks to be a dead sparrow in the crook his small, pouty sausage-fingers. His eyes squint as he follows the lifeless bird and its wings limply swaying.

 

He doesn’t have time to dwell on his observation. An angry horn blares just a few feet away and he has to hit the brakes full-force when he realizes he’s fast approaching a pedestrian crossing - currently being crossed by a middle-aged woman with a whining toddler in her arms.

 

He’s too busy trying to tame the surge of panic that makes his shit heart gallop against his chest to really apologize. Given how she yells at him and kicks his bumper, trying to kill him with a stare and cursing him enough for the next two hundred generations, she probably wouldn’t have heard one anyway. All of that for a bloody dead sparrow. He’s going bonkers. How many times did he find dead birds and mice and snakes in his garden when he was a kid? It happened. No need to go full paranoid over a dead sparrow.

 

He blows a heavy sigh through his nose and gets his car moving again. 

 

True to her words, Tyler is waiting for him on the parking lot, arms crossed over her chest and foot tapping nervously - or impatiently, he can’t be sure - against the asphalt. 

  
  


“You’ve seen a ghost or what?” she asks as soon as he opens his door and steps out. “You’re so white… Nevermind, that joke isn’t going anywhere. So? What happened?”

“Something caught my eye when I was driving, almost drove into a woman and her nipper on a crossing,” he shrugs - and when he sees her judgmental grimace he thinks it better to keep talking and rid her of any chance she might get to make a comment. “Saw a dead sparrow, probably nothing, but given the circumstances I just… Noticed. Shouldn’t we go to the station to file my report about what the vet’s told me?”

“It’s quite late already, I’d rather we go meet that crazy hag you keep complaining about first,” she says with a sketch of a half-smile over he features. “I’m driving Hardy. You seem to have quite a lot on your mind, and I’m afraid I’m only going to add more.”

  
  


He wants to protest. But then, he remembers he hasn’t been declared fit to drive yet, that she’s his boss, on probation no less. So he just rolls his eyes to show the frustration he believes she expects and walks around the car, a certain annoyance wrapped around his ankles that makes his steps heavy. He plops down on his own passenger seat and watches her with an amused, and almost filthy grin as she painstakingly adjusts the seatbelt between her two breasts, over the lapel of her jacket that doesn’t fold properly and the little badges she doesn’t want to rip off.

  
  


“Stop staring Hardy, you’ll only make matters worse if anyone sees you dribbling over my boobs,” she says rather somberly - oh no, this time he can be sure there’s not a trace of humour in her voice.

“What matters?” he asks after redirecting his eyes to safer territories - the road now ahead of them has never looked so interesting to look at.

  
  


Of course, it’s a useless question because he already knows the answer. He thinks he does at least. Such a comment can either mean she regrets everything that’s happened between them, or that people now know about everything that’s happened between them. He’d go with the latter, given the choice. Because he doesn’t regret a thing. And he doesn’t want her to regret. He likes what they have, what they share - although he would be quite unable to qualify what it is they share, exactly.

  
  


“Royle came by before you arrived,” she tells him, and there’s a stiffness in her movements when she switches gears. “He needed to get some stuff in his locker, and he talked to his mate. He must have told him you were at my place, earlier. And you know how it is in that station. News spread like wildfire.”

“It’s not like he caught us shagging against the wall or something,” he mutters, angry not only at himself but at the whole situation. “Not much he could have said.”

“Same outcome, Hardy, you know that as well as I do,” she retorts, taking an unnecessary look in her rearview mirror as if she’s trying to avoid his gaze. “Whether they know we shagged or think we shagged, the looks you get will be exactly the same. They just know. So when we’re at work, please let’s be the epitome of professionalism. We don’t want to give them proof that could get the both of us fired, alright?”

“So what, you expected me to shove my hand down your pants in the middle of the open space?” he grunts and lets his head fall back against the headrest with a snort. “Well, thanks for the heads-up, at least I know I can’t pull your knickers down when we’re at work.”

  
  


He knows it’s unfair to her, but he thinks it’s also a bit unfair of her to think he’d be the one to spill the metaphorical beans. Dammit, he’s probably more professional than her in so many aspects of the job he should be the one to ask her if she’s ever been planning on slipping under his desk. He’s old and dull, she’s young and reckless. If anyone would blow their professional cover, it would be her, not him. 

 

And why does it fucking matter anyway? They’re done for. Everyone at the station knows, tomorrow everyone in this sodden town will know. They’d bloody brush fingers by accident and that would be enough to send them down the unemployment Hell should anyone notice. 

 

He should have never,  _ ever _ , let her seduce him. A screwdriver. That’s all it took. One screwdriver to compromise an already compromised career and fuck up and already fucked-up reputation. He feels like he’s in a bloody Cluedo game, murdered in the crumbling beach chalet with a screwdriver by Miss Bondie Cop.

  
  


“Don’t put words I didn’t say in my mouth, thanks very much,” she retorts before he can dive too deep in that pit of anger and self-flagellation. “You were right, Hardy. You  _ are  _ a curmudgeon.”

“Not like I didn’t warn you. Your detective skills are poppycock, Tyler. But I’m afraid you can’t take that blowjob back. D’you still want the return on your horrible investment?”

  
  


He doesn’t mean for hiw words to sound so acerbic, but the way he bites on the barks that fall from his mouth have a cutting edge to them that makes him wince. Wonderful. He’s made her so bitter he can almost taste it on his tongue, so…  _ Angry _ , he thinks he’s finally found a serious contender that matches his innate ability to look furious. Just wonderful. He fucking hates himself.

  
  


“I didn’t mean any of that,” he grumbles, running the palm of his hand over his face to try and smooth his expression down to a more neutral one.

“Of course you did,” she shrugs - somehow her voice sounds much too soft, too nice, too calm when it’s only accompanied by pinched lips and dark eyes. “That’s a talent you have, Hardy. Speaking without thinking about what’s gonna come out of your mouth. Speaking the truth. Or what you think is the truth. You may say anything you want about me, I don’t care. But that’s twice you’ve doubted my professional competence and skills, and that’s something I can’t accept. Final warning. Don’t you dare say my detective skills are poppycock ever again.”

“Or what, you’ll have me fired?” he chortles with a sneer that pulls the corners of his lips upward.

“Oh no,” she smiles, giving his thigh a gentle pat - and, in such a tensed atmosphere, he thinks this is just a little bit scary, and he starts to feel just a little bit nervous. “I’ll arrange for you to be sent to investigate the murder of a special forces soldier in Iraq. Killed by an improvised explosive bomb filled with nails and glass debris. No forensics team, no partners, no support. Your cock and your gun, alone on a battlefield. You have three days before the next airstrike. Try that, and come tell me again that my detective skills are poppycock. What’s the next turn I need to take to go see your hag?”

  
  


Her question is lost in the rush of thoughts his brain conjures up. He hears it, but it’s something he simply can’t understand. What he’s trying to understand is the sudden sickness that makes his stomach churn and his mouth go dry. He’s always been rather prone to ignoring people’s feelings, but in that moment this tendency gives way to an odd and unwelcome desire to apologize. A sorry wouldn’t do this time. He went too far, caused too much hurt. She’s not crying, but he knows she wants to - not the right moment to boast about his detective skills, far from it, but he feels it. He sees it. The way her fingers clench around the wheel, the way her nose scrunches almost imperceptibly, the faint sound of her swallowing. 

  
  


“Pull over,” he orders, hoping he can still muster enough authority for her to listen. “Stop the car, pull over, Rose.”

  
  


_ Rose _ . That’s the first time he’s called her by her first name, he thinks. Desperate times call for desperate measures, he supposes. She keeps driving for a minute, and a mere second before his hope is drained to the last drop, she slows down and parks on the side of the deserted road.

  
  


“What?” she asks sharply, finger still wrapped tight around the wheel and eyes firmly glued to the road. 

“Please look at me.”

  
  


When she doesn’t, he cups her cheek and guides her head to the side, gently. He interprets the fact that she follows the movement of his hand as a good sign, and offers a shy but grateful smile. He hates to see her like that, all troubled and sad and a whole lot of other things she doesn’t deserve to feel. He really does hate himself. This woman, she’s the first one in years, maybe in his lifetime, who tries to really understand him. He can see that. He can understand that. So why on Earth does he keep, relentlessly, trying to push her away? 

 

She deserves her return on investment. Except what she’s investing in him isn’t just sexual in nature. She gives him friendship. She gives him affection. She gives him trust. All of those things, he doesn’t feel quite capable of giving back. Not yet anyway. But he can give back some honesty, and that’s a good start. 

  
  


“I promise I didn’t mean any of it,” he repeats - he can only hope the silence has soothed her anger, he can only wish she hears the sincerity in his voice. “Not a word. You’re brilliant, Rose.”

“Yeah, thanks, apology accepted,” she sighs, apparently anxious to get back on the road. “Directions?”

  
  


Of course she doesn't believe him. Why would she? Has he ever given her one good reason to believe in any of what he says? No. Not one. Not a glimpse of one.

 

He blows his defeat through his nose, but that was only round one. He’s going to win round two. He hopes. 

 

This time he cups both of her cheeks, perhaps a bit more firmly than he first intended, and he fights against his seatbelt to bend towards her and plant his lips against hers. Bad idea, very bad idea, he realizes only when he remembers how warm her own lips are, how pliant, how nice. Oh, he remembers perfectly, now, just how wonderful it feels to kiss her. Not sloppy snogging, just a soft kiss. 

 

He doesn’t give her the time to answer, doesn’t give his brain the time to record and store that memory, doesn’t give himself the pleasure he feels - pleasure he doesn’t deserve. He breaks the kiss but doesn’t let go of her face, hurries to catch her eyes before she can look away. He gets what he wanted. Her attention.

  
  


“I didn’t mean any of it,” he repeats for the third time, the pad of his thumb pressing against her lips to imprison her protests inside of her mouth. “You know that. You know me. I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve got me all figured out over three little days. That scares me. Because you know me, and you know where to hit me so that it hurts. You could destroy me, Tyler. What I said, it’s just… Dunno, some kind of defense mechanism? But I didn’t mean it. I know it hurt you, and I’m sorry I used that against you. I like you, Tyler. I don’t know what we have here, but I don’t want to ruin it.”

“If you don’t ruin it, the other will,” she sighs - he doesn’t know if he should feel relieved or disappointed she doesn’t comment on the rest of his tirade.

“Yesterday, you told me you didn’t care what people would say if they knew. Fine, let’s not care. What do they know about what we have, if  _ we  _ don’t even know? Come on, Tyler. We have enough on our heads and on our minds to care about the others.”

“You’ve lived among rumours and hearsays for a long time, Hardy, that’s easy for you to say.”

“Ouch,” he blurts out before a quiet laugh follows in the wake of his - faked - pained expression. “Told you you could hit right where it hurts. Still, I guess you’re right. I can teach you how how not to care, if you want.”

“And I could teach you to be less of a wanker, yeah?” she finally,  _ God _ , finally smiles as she reaches out with her fingers to give his hand a squeeze.

“You could try,” he grins, squeezing her fingers back. “You’ve already taught me how to apologize, so I suppose it’s not hopeless.”

  
  


She laughs, that beautiful laugh, and he feels so thrilled he hasn’t mucked everything up he can barely stops himself from kissing her again. Nope. Too soon. He let her come too close to him and his feelings. Too close, too fast. He can’t kiss her again, because he fears all the good things she’s giving him will be lost in that kiss. She overwhelms him. An overwhelmed Hardy is never a good thing. Better to wait. Keep away from the fire until he’s sure it’s not going to explode to his face.

 

So, instead, he just brings her hand to his mouth and plants a chaste kiss on the back of her hand. 

  
  


“So, left or right?” she asks as she spurs the car into motion, shoving his shoulder playfully when he wiggles his finger from left to right without stopping.

“Left, up that hill. And I know you’re a good cop, but that doesn’t mean you need to stick to that ridiculous 50 limit.”

“Given you’ve received five tickets within the last year, year during which you weren’t even supposed to drive, allow me not to listen to you.”

“Fair enough. At least you drive well. For a woman.”

“Fuck you, Hardy.”

  
  


He pretends to zip his mouth and glues his features into a serious face. He just has to let a chuckle escape through his nose when she speeds up. More than 20 above the speed limit. Oh, she can drive alright.

 

* * *

 


	13. Škoda

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take much more than ten minutes before they finally reach the entrance to the farm - or, well, the path that leads to it anyway. There’s a rather narrow pebbled road that snakes between walls of corn and weeds, all the way up the small hill covered in fields that seem to be left for dead. It looks almost gloomy, to see all those dried leaves and rotten corn, to spot mice and whatever wild animals crawl on a dead carpet of manure and compost. 

 

He knows this Ms Adams owns those fields, and he’s always seen those fields taken care of. Last year, he thinks he bought some popcorn to Miller’s kids at the funfair, and he remembers the old woman had been selling it. But well, that was last year. He can't really say he’s seen her ever since. Maybe he should have.

  
  


“It’s a nice place,” Tyler comments as they drive through a decrepit wooden gate that gives them access to a large farm cottage. “A bit far away from everything, mind you, but it’s nice.”

“I don’t like the smell,” he only comments as he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out on the coarse gravel. “Cow dung and horse shite. Disgusting.”

“Didn’t you grow up with that smell?” she asks, killing the engine and joining his decided steps towards the door. “What with your grandparents owning an equestrian club and all?”

“I grew up with a big sister. Doesn’t mean I like her,” he points out - because, obviously, he’s an idiot, and that was the only spiritual thought he could offer.

  
  


He knows she’s going to ask more about that later, and that he probably shouldn’t have said anything because that’s going to be one more thing she can annoy him with. His sister. No one in Broadchurch even knows he has a sibling. Sometimes  _ he _ doesn’t even remember he has one. He sees her, what, once every year for Christmas up in his Scottish motherland, and that’s when she bothers to actually show up. No. He doesn’t really have a sister.

  
  


“Kyla,” he tells her when she keeps looking at him with some kind of expectation in her eyes. “Maybe I’ll tell you more about her. Later. Let’s just deal with Ms Adams for now.”

“The curtains are closed. Do you think she might be sleeping already?”

“It’s only twenty past five,” he shrugs before he gives the door a few sharp knocks. “I know she’s a bit old and crazy, but maybe not that much.”

  
  


He waits at the door while she goes to a window to try and peer inside, but her shake of the head means she can’t see anyone. He tries knocking again - maybe she  _ is  _ actually sleeping that early, and he feels he won’t have the courage to come back all this way again for a runaway chicken that might not even be the one they’re looking for. 

  
  


“Did you even call her?” he asks her, bowing down to try and peek through the keyhole.

“‘Course I did, she told me she’d be here,” she answers - he hears her sigh of annoyance at his stupid question and doesn’t dare ask any more. “I suppose she… Oh, hello Ms Adams. Um, fine day, isn’t it?”

  
  


He hurries to straighten when she pulls on his sleeve hard enough to make him spin on his heels. Ah. Ms Adams.Finally, she’s here. He just didn’t quite expect her to brandish a giant hayfork under their noses and threaten to perforate their hide with so much determination. 

  
  


“Who are you?” the old woman with a tousled gray bun and dark eyes sunken in their sockets barks - he has to take a step back when the fork gets a bit too close and, out of reflex, he stretches an arm protectively in front of his boss. “Vandals? Thieves? Murderers?”

  
  


He rolls his eyes and wants to say he’d gladly give half of his pension to charities if that meant investigating any of those kinds of criminals. Not that it would help with their predicament much. 

 

But Tyler, he’s already forgotten she’s very likely to have faced that kind of situation before - and even more horrendous, more dangerous, more life-threatening ones than an old woman armed with a rusty hayfork, he can only guess. His useless arm-shield flops back on his side and he just watches. She grabs a tooth of the fork with one hand, reaches out with the other to get a good grip on the handle, and barely a blink later the hayfork is put down against the wall.

 

Well. At least that’s a woman who can take her of herself. Half a smirk stirs his lips as she takes out her wallet and presents her badge and ID to the crazy old woman with a big smile and a pointed look at the gun strapped to her belt.

  
  


“Ms Adams, I’m Detective Tyler, remember?” she says much too joyfully to his liking - but then again, it seems to work wonders on the woman’s mood so he can’t really complain. “I called you earlier? About your chicken?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Ms Adams nods and returns the smile, limping in her too-large boots towards the side of the house. “Sorry about that, you can never be too careful. Since my husband passed away, I don’t like living here on my own.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. So, where was your chicken stolen?”

  
  


He still can’t believe they’re properly investigating the mysterious - or not - disappearance of a chicken in an isolated farm, and he still can’t believe that could very well be their actual first clue. If a case opens on the grounds of a runaway chicken and dead fish, he’s almost certain it will go down in history.

 

They follow the lady to some kind of large coop built directly against the wall of the cottage, and she waves at the few chickens cackling and picking their beaks at the ground. He doesn’t fail to notice the small gate barely closes because of the broken lock, and he doesn’t fail to notice the hole in the chicken wire - not big, just big enough for a chicken to slip through. Just a bloody runaway chicken, then. Not like he didn’t know it even before he came.

  
  


“See,” Ms Adams says as she counts them all on her fingers and sighs in defeat. “Only seven of them. Einstein’s gone.”

“Einstein?” Tyler asks - not quite the first question he would have asked, but there’s something about looking at her lead her little interrogation and act all professional, so he’s happy just looking.

“My husband’s idea. That chicken has a bit of an odd plumage around his beak that looks like a mustache. And he’s a bit degenerate. The chicken, not my husband. Nervous issues, he just can’t keep his little tongue inside. Reminded my husband of that famous picture, you see. I don’t really…”

  
  


He stops listening to the old lady when Tyler pulls her phone out of her pocket and flicks through her photos. His growing boredom gives way to worry mingled with just a bit of excitement at the sudden anxious frown that pulls at her eyebrows. She jabs his ribs with her elbow to get the attention he’s already giving her and points at that one photo. The head of the chicken, lying in a pool of fresh blood. Messy, unpleasant to look at, but he can’t miss it. The thick pattern of black feathers around the beak. And the tongue that looks too long to belong to a bloody chicken, hanging from his open beak. Einstein. Tyler’s chicken is actually the crazy old hag’s chicken. Well, fuck.

  
  


“Ms Adams, I’m sorry to tell you, Einstein’s dead,” she apologizes as she shoves her phone back in her pocket - he notices she tries hard not to reach out and give the lady’s shoulder a comforting pat. “He seemed to mean… Quite a lot to you.”

“Oh, of course he didn’t,” she shrugs dismissively. “He would have been dead next week anyway. He was ready to get roasted and sold on the market, if you must know. I’m sorry I kept calling, it’s just that without those chickens I can’t earn enough to pay the bills, and I’m scared it will happen again. So, any ideas who’s stealing my chickens?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

  
  


He finally participates a bit, because that crazy old hag isn’t really a crazy old hag, and she’s managed to make him feel like a proper arse and a terrible cop all at once. He has never made any effort to check up on her and her problems, while her claims were legitimate and important to her. What kind of detective is he, to deem a call unworthy of his skills? He pledged to help people a couple of decades ago, and now he can’t be bothered to answer one of the very few calls he gets at the station? God he’s a tosser. 

  
  


“I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier, Ms Adams,” he says with a genuine pang of regret in his stomach she can’t see anyway. “It’s been quite busy at the station lately and missing chickens weren’t my priority.”

  
  


Well, that’s a blatant lie, and Tyler knows that as well as he does - he barely hears her quiet snort, barely sees the way she scratches the skin under her eye as if to say,  _ busy, my arse _ . But he does. And his regrets morphs into disappointment and weak resolve. He’s failed his boss. More importantly, he’s failed Rose Tyler. Not good.

  
  


“Have you noticed anything recently?” he asks anyway, flipping his tiny notepad open, ready to take some notes. “Anyone strange strolling around, anything out of the ordinary?”

“Well, I don’t know if that matters at all, but yesterday morning, very early, around 5 when I got out to feed the chickens, I saw a car. No one ever comes by anymore, except the postman,so it looked a bit odd”

“Where did you see that car?”

“Just by the gate. I saw it, it just drove away when I came out. It was a grey Skoda, that old model I can’t remember… wait… That’s…”

  
  


She doesn’t need to point a finger at the car because simply hearing the work  _ Skoda  _ made something click in his brain. His car is a Skoda. His car is grey. His car is old. But it makes no sense at all that she would have seen his car around here yesterday morning. As far as he knows, his car was safely parked at that time, and he was safely tucked in his bed. He’s never sleep-walked or experienced memory loss. So, she must be wrong. Or lying. 

  
  


“That’s the car I saw,” she frowns, a hint of suspicion in her voice. “Was the police watching me? Did I do anything illegal? Am I a suspect or something?”

“None of that, Ms Adams, don’t worry,” Tyler smiles - although the way she eyes him leaves no doubt she’s suspicious as well. “How can you be sure this is the car you saw?”

“Does that one have a sticker on the rear bumper? A green one, an ad for a garage I think?”

  
  


His shite heart almost collapses in his chest, the doubt and the concern he feels are made even worse by the way both these women now look at him. 

 

Could the woman have just seen the sticker a moment before, and just be a bit confused by old age and not fully functional brain? Maybe her jumbled memory of the car she saw got mixed with the more recent memory of the car now parked in front of her house? Maybe that’s not the car she saw at all - if she ever even saw a car, which remains to be proved. What he’s sure of, it’s that he’s never driven his old Skoda banger up to that farm.

 

There has to be a way to prove this car was never there yesterday morning. There just has to be.

  
  


“If you don’t trust me, start the car and brake,” Ms Adams huffs, crossing her arms with a firm expression of defiance - obviously she’s happy to provide a way to prove this car  _ was  _ there yesterday morning. “The right brake light isn’t working. Well go on, I haven’t got all night.”

“Do it, Tyler,” he orders, swiftly walking to the back of the car.

  
  


He’s sure lights are all working fine, he’s sure his car wasn’t there the morning before. So, he doesn’t understand why he stops breathing when the engine roars to life. The light is fine. It’s working. Because if it’s not, he’ll have to accept the old lady is right and accept she is neither mad or lying. Because if it’s not, he has no fucking clue how he’s going to explain his shite Skoda visited this farm without his consent or even his knowing. 

 

Tyler finally brakes. Only the left red light comes to life.

  
  


“Fuck,” he mutters loudly, running a feverish hand through his thick fringe. “How did this fucking happen? It’s not working, Tyler, it’s actually not working.”

“Don’t panic, Hardy,” she seethes lowly between her teeth as she walks past him and goes back to the old lady to shake her hand. “Thank you for your help Ms Adams. We’ll call you within the next few days to ask for a full statement. If you remember anything more, or if you need anything, please call the station. Have a nice evening.”

“Wait, aren’t you going to tell me what you were doing here? What about my chicken, aren’t you going to do something about that?”

“All in due time, Ms Adams. Sorry again about your chicken. We’ll ring you.”

  
  


Lost in a daze of incomprehension and bafflement, he can only wave briefly at the old woman before he goes to plop back down onto the passenger seat without really thinking about what he’s doing. Tyler isn’t really helping, all quiet and somber as she rather harshly buckles up and starts the car once more. She makes the tires screech on the gravel as she spurs the Skoda into motion and speeds down the pebbled and dusty road, away from the farm.

 

He’s desperate to know what she’s thinking, because he himself can’t think straight right now, but it seems she doesn’t feel the need nor the desire to open her mouth. She just drives, and drives, and drives, without speaking, looking at him, showing any sign she’s even aware of his presence by her side. She’s usually the chatty one. This time, he has to be the one to talk, because he just can’t stand the silence that’s growing too heavy, stifling, crushing.

  
  


“Do you believe her?” he asks, staring straight ahead at the road so he doesn’t have to see her frown and icy stare.

“Yes.”

“Do you think I drove there yesterday? Really?”

“Maybe.”

“So what, you think I set you up, that I stole a fucking chicken to bloody chop its head off on your doorstep? Is that what you think?”

“No.”

  
  


Bloody Hell, does she have to keep answering with monosyllables? It’s really getting on his nerves that she refuses to speak her mind and treats him like a fucking suspect, worse, like a  _ civilian _ . He’s a detective, for God’s sake. They’re a team of detectives working on the same case, she should be talking to him, sharing her thoughts and putting some kind of explanation forward. Maybe she used to work alone, in secret, but right now she’s not. He deserves to know.

  
  


“Did you?” she asks just as an angry rant was about to cascade out of his mouth. “Drive to that farm yesterday?”

“Oh yes, I love waking up at three in the morning and go on trips to deserted farms and steal bloody degenerate chickens,” he growls, furious that she dares ask him that kind of ridiculous and pernicious questions. “It’s actually my main hobby. Wasn’t that in my file? You should add it. Hardy, worst cop in Britain and chicken thief  _ slash  _ executioner in his spare time. ‘Cause obviously I have nothing better to do. Are you even fucking serious, Tyler?”

  
  


She swears under her breath and takes a sharp turn to the left as soon as she reaches the next junction. It’s another one of those roads that lead to nowhere, empty, bordered with weeds and dead trees, no asphalt, no sign, no anything. She brakes so hard he misses to bash is head into the windshield by a mere inch, and she slaps a hand over his mouth when he opens it to yell a few curses and give her a good piece of his mind. 

 

He’s surprised to see she looks… Worried. Not angry, not annoyed, not jaded by another one of his vehement ironic speech. Just worried. He swats her hand away from his face and glares at her, waiting for a detailed explanation of all the bloody nonsense he doesn’t understand.

  
  


“Did you drive to that farm yesterday?” she asks for the second time - he has a sudden desire to step out of that car and walk back home, lest he’s going to end up properly furious and quite possibly physically violent.

“You… You have a problem, Tyler. A very serious problem.”

“Just answer the question, Hardy.”

“Well, if you insist like a bloody mule after a carrot, no, I didn’t fucking drive to that fucking farm yesterday. Are you satisfied, DCI Tyler, or would you rather handcuff me?”

“That’s the fucking point, Hardy!” she yells at him, her voice sounding much too loud and high pitched in the confines of the car. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“What am I not getting, exactly, eh?”

  
  


He shuffles on his seat to face her and raises his eyebrows with a fake smile that hurts his cheek, waiting for an answer. She only sighs, rubs a hand down her face and makes a bit of her black mascara smudge in the process. Then she smiles back. A sad smile, almost maternalistic smile that looks odd and rather disturbing on that face he’s learnt to like. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he’s quite sure it’s going to be good. No way she can possibly find an excuse for asking that sodding question over and over again. He’s not a criminal. He’s not even a suspect.

  
  


“We have enough to open a case,” she starts, calmly, as if she doesn’t want to show just how troubled she is - but he sees it, because he’s a fucking  _ detective _ . “It’s gonna be thin grounds, but we have enough. A witness, a statement, evidence. Ms Adams, the details of what she saw, the photos I took. That’s all it takes.”

“Aye, so what?” he huffs, still unable to see where this is all going.

“You’re a good man, Hardy, and a good detective. No wonder you can’t see it.”

“Can’t see  _ what _ ?” he insists, patience growing thin and voice growing louder, angrier.

“Can you prove you were at your house yesterday around five in the morning? Can you prove your car was parked near your place at that time? Any proof at all?”

“I live alone and I was sleeping, Tyler, of course I don’t have any proof. Why…. Oh.  _ Fuck _ .”

“Yeah,  _ fuck _ ,” she chuckles without any trace of humour in her voice. “Until we can prove you didn’t drive there, you’re gonna be our prime suspect. I know you didn’t, I trust you, Alec. But technically… You could have. It all points to you. You know where I live, everyone thinks you wanted my job, most officers at the station know you were growing tired of Ms Adams’ calls, most people know what car you own. Which, by the way, smells rather strongly of detergent.”

“I took it to the valeting station three days ago,” he says with an indifferent shrug, as if that answer was enough to explain all the rest as well. 

“Do you have CS kit in your boot?”

“Aye. Anything on your mind?”

“Maybe whoever borrowed your car, if it was borrowed at all, left or lost something.”

“You’re too optimistic, Tyler,” he laughs half-heartedly as they both get ou of the car. 

“Optimistic enough to keep hoping you’ll invite me to the restaurant one of these days.”

  
  


He barely remembers Alec Hardy doesn’t blush, doesn’t gape, doesn’t feel embarrassed. He snaps his mouth close and clears his throat, freezing his features into his eternal bitter frown. Still, he stores that information in a corner of his brain. Might be useful. Good to know. He hates dates, especially rubbish, clichéd ones - going to restaurant, often expensive, boring and painful. But with Rose Tyler, it’s a bit different. He knows her already. He knows he likes her already. Might be worth a try. 

 

_ Ha _ , what’s he even thinking. He could never date his boss. Never date this beautiful, young, clever…

  
  


“So, where’s your kit?” she draws him out of his thoughts as she inspects the contents of his boot.

“It’s…” he begins, then stops when he notices the kit he always keeps in a plastic box is gone. “Well, it  _ should  _ be here. Wait, what’s this? That wasn’t here before.”

“Not with your bare hands!” she warns - shrieks in his ears and almost perforates his eardrums, would be a better description. “Here, let’s do it together.”

  
  


She wraps her hands into the sleeve of her shirt and picks up the lone manila envelope lying at the bottom of the box. A thin envelope, with his first name written in large and elegant cursive letters on the front. 

  
  


“What if it’s got a deadly virus in it?” he can’t help but ask, just as he starts lifting the seal flap, fingers carefully covered by his tie.

“It doesn’t. If they wanted to kill you with a letter, they’d have sent it to you by post. They wouldn’t make it look so suspicious. Trust me on that.”

  
  


And so he trusts her. He pulls out a single sheet of brown paper, on which a few other words are written - same ink colour, same kind of round and refined letters. And a couple of fish as a signature. A cheap, childish self-inking stamp that looks a bit smudged - brand new, probably, and too much ink has seeped into the paper.

  
  


“Well, maybe a virus wouldn’t have been as bad as this,” he tries to joke as he shows her the piece of paper.

“That sounds… Enigmatic. Enigmatic and creepy.”

  
  


He takes another look at the words, read them again, does his very best to ignore the blood rushing in his ears and the unpleasant feeling of fear and unease that settles low in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t like that. Not one bit. None of it bodes well. 

 

He supposes he’s been wanting a good case for quite some time. But that’s not exactly the kind of case he had in mind. He tells her they’d better head back to the station to file their findings, and he lets the envelope and the letter flutter back into the box. He slams the boot close over the words.

 

_ I know what haunts you. _

 

* * *

 


	14. Breathe

* * *

 

 

He’s thankful the station is almost deserted at that time of the day, on a Saturday. 

 

He’s already seen a few officers looking at him. Some grinning knowingly as he and Tyler had made their way up the stairs. Some staring at them with nothing else but contempt in their eyes. Some others just shaking their heads in disapproval. Right, they know, Tyler was right. Everyone knows he’s shagged his boss, okay, that was to be expected, but do they really have to make it feel so…  _ Wrong _ ? Do they have to make it so obvious they know and don’t approve? 

 

He knows Corbyn has been cheating on his wife with Mary from accounting for more than two years. He knows Evans has been secretly dating his own chief officer for months. He knows Scott is a full-time member of a strip-tease club in some shady Devon town - he found his member card in the locker room a while back. 

 

He knows, but has been judging? Has he said anything to anyone? Of course not. Tyler might be right. He might be a good bloke, in the end. Maybe too good. Too nice. He should really stop being nice if judgmental looks and knives in the back are all he’s going to get as rewards. Fuck them all. One wrong word and he’s going to make sure they regret it.

 

He gently shoves the door to her office open with his shoulder and puts down two bottles of fresh water on her desk.

  
  


“So, what have we got?” he asks, breaking the seal of his bottle before drinking a good half of it - he’s quite thirsty, and he remembers the doctor’s order to keep hydrated. Why does he remember that now, he doesn’t know.

“Close to nothing, really,” she says with a defeated shrug before she leans her head into her palm. “Here is our physical evidence so far. A letter and an envelope. Then we’ll get Ms Adams’ statement, mine, yours, Royle’s and Miller’s. I’ll call her to make sure she can ask her kids when and how they found the cat, when was the last time they saw it and everything. But to be honest… We don’t know anything. We don’t know who, how, and more importantly we don’t know  _ why _ .”

“ _ I know what haunts you _ , the letter says,” he points out as he wipes his wet mouth the back of his hand. “Gotta mean something. Police-related? I’ve got a few cases that haunt me, to be honest.”

“But the animals, Hardy. Why did you get dead fish? And then the pig, the cat, the chicken? It makes no sense. Unless… Dunno, have you ever worked on a case involving dead fish?”

“Nope, not that I can remember. I think I would. Probably.”

“Even if you did, what links your fish to my chicken and Miller’s cat?” she continues - he doesn’t really enjoy quizz machines, especially when he has no answer to give, but he suffers her questions in silence and still tries to light the way.

“A grudge against the police?” he offers, hoping she’s going to take it because that’s the only rational explanation he can come up with. “We’re all cops. Can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

“That we can agree on.”

  
  


She sighs heavily and leans back into her chair - it squeaks a bit, and that’s the only thing he agrees to notice, because he refuses to notice the two undone buttons of her shirt that grant him a great view of her cleavage. She raises her arms above her head and arches her back, a low moan rising in her throat. And that’s one less button. She’s really not helping. Nope. He takes a few other gulps of cold water and redirects his eyes to the letter and its grim message, carefully sealed into an evidence bag. That’s enough to keep his blood flowing where it should be flowing. 

  
  


“So, do you want to hear what the vet said?” he enquires, snatching his small notepad from his inside pocket, flicking through a few pages before he finds the one he’s looking for. “He couldn’t tell me much more than how they died, but we might want to file that as well. Just for the record, you know.”

“Sure,” she nods a she opens a software on her computer and readies her fingers to type the information. “So, one beheaded chicken, then what?”

“My fish died asphyxiated,” he starts to read - and immediately the sound of typing follows. “Both of them, lungs full of air, stayed out of the water too long. Which is weird, considered they were dripping wet when I found them.”

“Weird, indeed, but not like we can explain that right now. Go on, Hardy.”

“Right, Royle’s piglet…”

“Oh, did Royle take that pig to the vet as well?” she interrupts with a frown.

“Well, the vet’s the only facility where you can incinerate dead pets and animals,” he explains, his shoulders raising in a weak shrug. “He couldn’t leave it to rot in his garden. So, as it happens, this piglet was strangled. With a rope or something similar, the vet couldn’t tell. And Miller’s cat… Blunt trauma to the head and two broken legs. Rather grisly, if you ask me. The thing is, none of these animals died from natural causes. They were killed. We just need to find out who did it.”

“And that most likely means finding who borrowed you car yesterday. I was thinking… Is there any CCTV in the area where you parked it?”

“Aye, east end of Hill Rise. There’s a small parking lot just by the walkway that leads to my house.”

“Is that where you live?” she raises her eyebrows, apparently surprised that he didn’t live in a cave or something. “Damn, an here I thought single men lived in rubbish cheap flats littered with empty pizza boxes.”

“I could invite you someday, if you want,” he says as if it’s just a casual offer, when inside he just wants to beg her to come very soon, and if possible very often. “So, CCTV?”

“Yep, come sit next to me. Always better to look at that kind of crappy vids with a second pair of eyes.”

  
  


He manages to make his chair roll awkwardly around the edge of the desk, but he fails to stop where he wanted to stop. So, he finds himself next to her, close to her, so close their arms are touching, the vapors of her sweet perfume tickle his nostrils, her warmth reaches out to him. Too close. There’s always a kind of tension when he’s close to her, nor good, nor bad. Just an electricity that keeps him on edge, torn between the desire to get even closer and the urge to get away. 

 

He’s captivated by the way she brings her own bottle of water to her lips, swallows a few gulps - no, not captivated, just merely looking, because he can’t be captivated by that kind of things. She’s just drinking water. Preposterous, really, to think he could be captivated by a woman drinking water. That only happens in bad rom-coms. Or cheap porn movies. 

 

But then, his eyes follow that one pearl of water that runs down her chin, hangs there for a second before it drops into her ostentatious cleavage. It brings his attention back to her breasts. He remembers he’s seen them. Touched them. Licked them. It only lasts a second, but he’s struck by a sudden magnetic attraction. Just a second, during which he wants to bring her against him, wants to wrap his fingers around her hair, wants to kiss her, bury his face into her shoulder, hug her, hold her, melt into her. And within this span of a second, he realizes he’s fucked. Oh, so fucked. 

 

Because that magnetic attraction, though it starts with breasts, didn’t feel just sexual in nature. Also… Emotional. No, no, no way. 

 

He shakes his head lightly, swallows a chuckle and focuses his attention back on the screen. Alec Hardy,  _ emotional _ . What a ridiculous concept. He likes her, yes, he’s accepted that already, but he’s light-years away from any romantic considerations. What they have is weird, but it’s not romantic. They are friends. Who shag. And want to go on dates. And flirt. And kiss. That’s all. Nothing romantic or emotional about that. Not at all.

  
  


“At what time did she say she saw the car again?” he asks, hoping she hasn’t noticed the inner turmoil that makes his voice one pitch too high. 

“Five,” she answers as she opens the folder of video files and searches for the right date and the right camera.  “We should watch the vids from four to six, just to be sure.”

“Aye. just fast-forward it, we won’t miss it anyway. Not many people on that parking lot at those hours.”

  
  


She agrees with a nod and a black and white, pixelated picture of the parking lot pops up on the screen. He spots his car, but unfortunately it’s parked too far away from the camera. If anyone shows up, it’s going to be hard to make out a face, especially since it was night at the time and only the dull light of a street lamp lights up the area. The time frame scrolls fast in the bottom right corner of the screen, minutes turned to mere seconds. His heartbeat runs so fast he can only feel a low, steady thrum that makes his chest vibrate. A quarter past. Twenty past. Twenty-five past. He doesn’t what what to expect. He just expects.

 

He tenses, fingers clenched around the armrests of his chair, body leaning towards the screen, eyes roaming all over the picture. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

 

_ 5:32 _ . At that exact time, a shadow appears in the background. A figure in black that walks down the walkway that leads to his house, heads straight for his car without second-guessing his steps. The figure is a man. A tall man. A skinny man. A man with a beard, it seems, and hair long enough to fall on his forehead. The thrum stops for a moment or two, then starts again, louder, harder. More painful. So painful he’s scared his pacemaker won’t keep up and fail his heart.

  
  


“Hardy…” she whispers, enthralled by the screen even more than he is.

  
  


She’s thinking the same. That man looks like him. Crap image and horrible lighting are just enough to make it difficult to prove, to see, or even to simply pretend that it’s not him. To anyone who knows him, that man  _ is _ him. He swallows hard, starts to feel thirsty again and wishes he didn’t down that bottle of water so fast. 

 

_ 5:33 _ . The man opens the door of his car and slips behind the wheel, but there’s no way they can figure out if he lockpicked it, or found any other way to open it. Until a small fraction of a second later. An arm stretches out through the driver’s window. He can’t be sure, he doesn’t even want to be sure, but somehow he knows and, well,  he  _ is  _ sure - and it doesn’t make his heart slow down one beat. The dim light reflects on something that dangles from what can only be a set of his keys. Same long chain, same size, same shape. His daughter’s keyring. 

 

_ 5:34. _ The rear lights come to life, the car starts to move, disappears from the frame of the video.

  
  


“Breathe, Alec, breathe. It’s okay, breathe.”

  
  


The words don’t really make sense - why is she even telling him to breathe? He registers her hands on his neck, her fingers struggling to loosen his tie, pulling at the collar of his shirt so hard a few buttons pop. He sees her face painted thick with worry, he sees her snatch her bottle of water from the desk and bring it to his lips. What the Hell? He’s fine, apart from the fact he’s scared she’s gone completely bonkers.

 

It’s only when he tries to frown that he realizes his eyebrows are already tightly knit together and his face is entirely possessed by a grimace of fear and pain. Only when he tries to shove her away that he realizes he can’t feel his fingers any longer, because they’re just wrapped so tight around his armrests they’ve started to turn white and lifeless. Only when he tries to curse at her that he realizes he’s not properly breathing and can’t swallow enough air to fuel his words.

 

It’s only when he realizes he’s having some kind of panic attack that the weight of it crashes down on his shoulders and makes it all worse.The tension. The hyperventilation. And his heartbeat, so quick but at the same time so weak, doing its best to try and provide oxygen to the rest of his body - oxygen he desperately needs, but oxygen he can’t get.

  
  


“Look at me, Alec,” she insists as she cups both his cheeks in a tight grip and presses her forehead tight against his - probably so he’s unable to miss her wide eyes.

“Not me,” he almost whistles, too little air going up his throat to make proper sounds. “Not me.”

“I know it wasn’t you, Alec, I know it wasn’t. Look at me, follow my lead, ‘kay? Come on, breathe in… Take it slow, just breathe in… Good, and breathe out. You’re doing great Alec, now, again. In… And out…”

  
  


He doesn’t really listen to her words, just hears them, and he mimics her actions. In and out. Steady. Slow. In, and out. Little by little, he manages to calm down, to get his breathing back to normal, to get his shite heart back to its regular pace. It only takes a couple of minutes, but it feels like an eternity. His every muscles liquefy all at once and he melts into his chair in a quivering mass of flesh. He closes his eyes over tears that gathered there, and he welcomes her lukewarm hand on his forehead.

  
  


“It wasn’t me, lass,” he says after a soft sigh of relief - or lassitude, or pain, or fatigue, he doesn’t know. “That wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t you, Alec, alright?” she tries to reassure him as she brings her bottle of water to his mouth once more - and tries hard not to be an arse and grunt that she doesn’t need to baby him. “That man… Looks like you, and it’s rather disturbing. But I trust you. If you tell me you didn’t do it, then you didn't. Period.”

“That’s not gonna help with me being a suspect, is it? I thought that footage would be proof enough of my innocence. It makes me look even more guilty. I’m fucked, Tyler.”

“I… We could… Let’s not talk about that here. We don’t know who could hear us. But I have a plan. Are you alright to walk?”

“Aye, ‘t was nothing,” he nods and proves his point by pushing himself up on his feet and knotting his tie back around his collar. “Just forgot to take my pills this morning. Won’t happen again.”

“Good,” she smiles an unconvinced but affectionate smile. “I won’t always be here to save your arse, Hardy. You just got lucky today.”

“Wouldn’t call that day  _ lucky _ .”

  
  


Five minutes later, they’re both seated in a police car so she can drop him off at his place. He left his car at the station, reluctant to use it both because he wouldn’t feel comfortable in that car that won’t ever feel like his again, and because, who know, maybe their forensics team will find a clue or two inside it. Better not to tamper with a possible crime scene.

 

They don’t talk much. A joke, maybe two, that don’t sound natural, only fake, just to make the silence a wee bit less heavy. A  _ you forgot the lights _ , two  _ turn left _ . And he slips one _ thank you for earlier _ , in between the lyrics of the song playing low in the background she’s humming to herself. She doesn’t hear it - if she does, she pretends not to. He stops paying attention to where they’re going, too tired for his brain to function at full capacity. Does it really matter if he pays any attention, anyway? She’s driving. She could take him to the end of the world and he wouldn’t care. Right now, it even has a certain appeal to it. Drive, and drive, far away from this place, far away from everything that’s happening. With Rose Tyler. Go somewhere they wouldn’t have to work together, go somewhere they could maybe, just maybe, get to know each other without the troubles and the horrors of cases and trials. It would be nice. To spend time with Rose Tyler. 

 

He swims out of his dozing off when the car stops for a few minutes too long. The engine is still running, though. Just what… And when he blinks back to a semblance of awareness, he sees they’re parked along the fence of her house. Not his. Hers. He doesn’t get the chance to be confused, because soon enough she emerges through her door with a duffle bag and hurries back to the car.

  
  


“Tyler, what are you doing?” he frowns as she plops back down behind the wheel and throws her bag on the backseat.

“Well, obviously, I’m going to stay at your place tonight,” she shrugs - well, obviously she didn’t deem necessary to ask for his approval, which bothers him only a little, because after all he kind of wanted to invite her anyway.

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk.”

“People…”

“People can fuck off,” she interrupts before he can develop his thought further. “We need to talk  _ and  _ I care about you. Just let me be your friend, alright?”

“Aye, I think I can do that.”

  
  


He smirks at the way her mouth hangs open, as if she’d planned a whole series of counter-arguments for a protest that didn’t come out. She’s surprised. He didn’t know he was still capable of surprising people. 

 

He wraps his fingers around her shoulder and gives it a gentle shove. That’s friendly, he thinks. Then he can’t stop himself. He brings his fingers to the side of her face and tucks a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. More than friendly, he thinks. But somehow he doesn’t care anymore. Because he’s given up. It didn’t take long to give up - what was it, three days? Four?

 

But he stops fighting those thoughts and those feelings. He could die. Killed by his heart, killed by that man who looks like him. Worse, he could go to prison. Spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars. But sod it. None of that will happen before he gets the chance to invite Rose Tyler to the restaurant.

 

He falls back into a quiet and comfortable sleep, lulled by her soft singing voice and the jouncing of the car. He doesn’t even know there’s a smile on his lips that lingers.  

 

* * *

 


	15. Firsts

* * *

 

 

It’s probably not as tidy as he would have liked it to be. There are clothes haphazardly bundled on the couch. Piles of old case files against a wall. A bit of undone dishes in the sink. He remembers he left his bed undone in the morning. But there’s something else about his tiny house that bothers him.

 

From the outside, it looks quite nice - he has a feeling she’d say it looks  _ cute _ , even. But inside, it just looks… Old. It’s not, really, because it was renovated not so long before he moved in. But its overall appearance is one more clue that points to his age, and he doesn’t like that. He didn’t care before. Now he does. The old-fashioned furniture he got in a second-hand shop because he didn’t have enough money to invest in anything better back then. The ugly-as-fuck decorations he put there so he wouldn’t have to stare at blank walls when he gets home. The carpet that looks like it belongs in his granny’s house, the curtains yellowed by the light of the sun, the flower pot with a withered branch that once was an evergreen shrub.

 

Basically, this house is just a replica of hers - before she decided to throw everything out, that is. 

  
  


“I didn’t expect you to come today,” he says as an excuse, gathering the clothes on the couch to go and throw them in his laundry basket.

“I thought it’d be worse,” she teases him as she sweeps are eyes around the living-room. “For a single man in his forties, I mean.”

“Do you want anything?” he offers so he won’t have to comment on the taunt. “Tea, coffee? Something to eat?”

“Nah, thanks, I’m good. Should I tell you about my plan now, or would you rather go to sleep? You’re tired aren’t you?”

“Let’s hear it now. I  _ am  _ tired, but with everything that’s going on… Not sure I’ll sleep much anyway.”

  
  


She nods and sits at the table covered with a tartan tablecloth - the only thing around that points to his Scottish origins, and he doesn’t even like it much. He sits opposite her, folds his hand over the cloth and leans back in his chair. He doesn’t know what kind of plan she’s come up with, but he hopes it’ll be good enough to keep him away from a cell. It’s odd, he thinks, to find himself on the other side of the mirror. He’s been chasing after suspects and criminals for the better part of his life, and now he could very well become one. It’s odd and unpleasant. And rather scary, although he would never dare tell her about that particular feeling.

  
  


“Alright,” she starts when he bows his head to show he’s ready to listen. “First off, please keep an open mind, because it won’t be quite... Legal. To us cops, it’s kind of a big offense, really, but… There’s no other way.”

“What do you want to do, then? Falsify the evidence we’ve got?” he raises his eyebrows, reaching for his vial of pills he forgot to take in the morning. 

“Worse,” she chuckles humorlessly - he doesn’t miss the concerned way she eyes him as he gulps down his pills with the remnants of his morning coffee he’s left on the table. “We lie. Pretend we don’t have it. We’ll wait for Miller’s and Royle’s statements before we open the case. Technically, Ms Adams’ would be enough, because it gives us a suspect. Except the suspect is you, and we can’t have that. So, we just wait for a bit. I’ll take her statement, tell her I’m looking into it. But I’ll just hide it somewhere until we can find a better suspect.”

“Some people know she’s been calling about her chickens,” he points out, seeing so many flaws in that plan it makes him even more uneasy. “Some people know we went to see her. And when we open the case, you’ll have to add your own statement that mentions your own chicken. Those officers aren’t bright, but they’ll make the connection.”

“We can tell them it’s just a coincidence. I’ll go back to the farm and take pictures of the coop. The door lock is broken and there’s a hole in the chicken wire. We’re dealing with a dead chicken, Hardy, not a dead person. No one’s gonna care about where the chicken comes from.”

“What about the letter I got in my boot?”

“I’ll take it home, keep it hidden for a few days, then I’ll put it back in your car. People can’t know you found it on the day we went to the farm, it’d look too suspicious and might lead to unwanted investigation.”

“When do we open the case then?”

“On Monday, when I’ll have every statement. Without the letter, it’ll just be a silly case of dead animals. Without Ms Adams’ statement, there won’t be any mention of a theft. Only you know about the chicken I found on my doorstep. I’ll wait a bit before I give my own statement, I’ll falsify the date on the photos I took so that it can’t be linked in any way to the disappearance of that woman’s chicken.”

“Are you really willing to risk your career for…” he begins - and his nose scrunches when he realizes how this question is going to end. “ _ Me _ ? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“I just have a feeling I’m gonna need you on that case and I don’t want you to be on the wrong side of the fence when I do. So that’s what we do to ensure you can lead this investigation with me. We open the case on Monday based on Miller’s, Royle’s and your statements only. Until further notice, we’re just after a petty criminal who kills animals and tries to scare us. That’s it.”

“If anyone finds out about your little scheme we’re both in big, big trouble, Tyler.”

“Then we’ll just have to make sure no one finds out.”

  
  


Her voice sounds sure, unwavering, but the worried smile that spread over her face tells a whole other story. She’s scared, too. For different reasons, maybe, but at least he knows he’s not alone. They’re gonna have the same secret. It’s not the first time in his career he’s going to have to lie and to pretend. Hopefully, the consequences won’t be as fucked-up as the last time. He doesn’t feel capable of facing another mediatic shitstorm linked to horrible decisions. The last time, he lost everything. The little he’s managed to recover, he doesn’t want to lose. 

 

And is it even a good idea? Is it even an idea he agrees with? He ponders. If they do everything by the book, he’ll end up being the prime suspect and that will ruin his career. If they abide by her plan, either everything will go well, or everything will go wrong. But if they abide by her plan, at least there’s a way out. Uncertain, paved with dangers and opportunities to fuck it all up, but at least there’s a way out. Better than no way out at all.

  
  


“Fine, let’s do that, then,” he agrees with a weary sigh, pushing himself back on his feet. “We should go to bed, it was a long day. Just let me change the bed sheets first. I’ll take the couch, you can have the bed.”

“We shagged, Hardy,” she grins as she goes to her duffel bag to get what he can only suppose to be her pyjamas. “We’re a bit beyond that kind of sleeping arrangements, don’t you think?”

“We can’t make a habit out of this, Tyler. The first time was…”

“A mistake? Yeah, I know. I’m talking about sleeping in the same bed, Hardy. As in sleep, not  _ sleep _ , if you get my meaning.”

“Aye, sure,” he agrees, still certain the couch would be a much better option but unwilling to throw himself into an argument. “You can have a shower, if you want. That door.”

“Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  
  


It only takes a few minutes to change the sheets - he’s rather pleased that new set still bears a soft fragrance of the softener he uses - and just a couple more to trade his suit for his sleeping attire. He won’t lie, having lived on his own for so long, he’s now used to sleeping naked from head to toes. Tonight, he not unwisely decides it’s better to slip on a pair of clean boxers and a tee-shirt - he can only hope she’ll dress appropriately, too. Not that he’d mind much if she didn’t. Wait, yes, he would mind, very much.

 

He worms his way under the covers at about the same time the sound of the shower dies down. He waits for her, arms crossed behind his head, eyes full of expectation staring at the door. He grins at himself, imagining the kind of outfit she’ll have picked. A negligee? No, that wouldn’t work. She’s too practical for that. Button through pyjamas? Maybe. Better than a negligee, that’s for sure - much less skin to see. Or maybe…

  
  


“You look like you’re expecting Santa or something,” she grins when she finally walks through the frame of the door. “Sorry I don’t have any presents.”

“Maybe you’re the present,” he shrugs with a half-smile - it’s only when the words come out that he’s struck by the meaning of his words. “I mean, er, you know… Just… Thanks for staying with me tonight, I guess.”

“Thanks for letting me stay.”

  
  


It’s not a negligee, nor button through pyjamas, he notices when she walks towards the bed. Just a pair of shorts with fun cartoonish drawings of cats, and a white tank top. Nothing underneath any of them. He thinks. The way her breasts are underlined by the garment, and the shorts that hang low, very low, but don’t show anything more than the skin of her hips. So low he can see the soft curve between her hip and her leg. It shouldn’t matter, really, because she said it herself - sleep, not  _ sleep _ . But she’s going to sleep next to him. In this attire. He’ll just have to sleep facing the wall. Not really something he’s used to, but just for tonight, he’ll have to. He can’t risk her feeling… Well, that he likes her. Quite a lot.

 

He clears his throat and kills the lights. 

 

But then, she slips under the cover and snuggle close to him before he gets the chance to roll on his side. One of her arms snakes around his waist, one of her legs locks around one of his. And her head lands on his shoulder, and a quiet sigh of contentment brushes against the side of his neck. Are they there, yet? Has he said or done anything she could have understood as,  _ sure, let’s just get together and try a relationship _ ?

 

Oh yes, he likes her. And he thinks she likes him - at least she hasn’t run away from him yet, which is a good sign. But… This. This feels intimate. In the broad sense of the term, not just the sexual connotation. He’s not sure he’s ready for that kind of things. He’s not sure he likes it.

  
  


“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks softly, her arm loosening around his waist.

“No,” he lies.

  
  


Or is it the truth? Does he really mind? Of course, he doesn’t. Rose Tyler is in his bed, close to him, and the best part is, she wants it. He can’t mind something he secretly craves. The modicum of restraint he’s managed to gather is suddenly gone, replaced by something akin to… To something a single word could never encompass. Like he’s letting go of the reins of the boundaries he’s crafted around and for himself over the years. Like, _ why not _ ? She wants it, and he wants it. They’re colleagues, they’re friends, they’re maybe heading towards more than friends. 

 

_ Aye, why the fuck not? _

 

He wraps his arm around her shoulders and guides her to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, pulls her even closer. Who did he think he was kidding? Of course he likes that. 

  
  


“That’s my first time sharing a bed with someone else, you know,” she whispers - and he hears it in her voice, that she’s feeling like she’s unveiling a secret of sorts. “I mean, to spend the night. Like this. With someone I like.”

“Really?” he raises his eyebrows, though in the dark only his tone can convey his surprise.

“Yes,” she chuckles lightly, giving his hip a squeeze. “You’re my first, Hardy.”

“But… Wait, two days ago…” he starts, suddenly very aware of what this could mean, and suddenly very worried. “When we… You know. That wasn’t your first, right?”

“I suppose it kinda was.”

“ _ Kind of _ ? What’s that supposed to mean, Tyler? Was it, or was it not? Because if it was, I don’t…”

“It wasn’t,” she reassures him - she’s probably heard the growing panic in his voice and in the way his shoulder tensed. “Kind of.”

“Oi, would you just please stop answering  _ kind of _ and talking in bloody riddles and explain yourself? It’s a simple question, darnit. Did I act like the ultimate wanker,  _ again _ , and didn’t even notice?”

“No. No, you were amazing, Hardy. When I say it _ kind of  _ was my first…”

“Careful, lass, I don’t have unlimited resources of patience.”

  
  


She sighs just a bit wearily and he feels her head rise from his shoulder, just before he feels her chin settle on the edge of his clavicle. If it wasn’t so dark, he would see her eyes looking at him. But he doesn’t, and that makes him feel both annoyed and nervous. He can’t know what she’s thinking, he can’t see if she’s mocking him, teasing him, or worse, or better. Hopefully better.

  
  


“My first time was with a girl, if you must know,” she says - good, he can hear the smile in her voice, and that’s good, because it means she’s trying to soother his nerves, not drive him even more barmy. “I was seventeen. Happened in the women barracks, military camp. Wasn’t great, to be honest, but that was my first.”

“Do you like women as well, then?”

“I suppose I do,” she shrugs, the movement causing her whole body to inch closer to his. “I’ve never really known love, you know. I just… I suppose I just want to find a person who could show me what it’s like. Gender, age, physical appearance… They don’t really matter to me, as long as it’s someone I could love, and someone who could love me back. Does that make sense?”

“Aye, it does,” he nods, his hand finding the side of her face, the back of his fingers brushing her cheek. “This bloody world would be a much better place if everyone thought like you.”

“Maybe it would, yes. When I say you kinda were my first, it’s because… That was the first time I felt like… I just felt like you cared. No one cared before that. When I worked for the MIs, sometimes I’d have to have sex with men. But it never was meant to be enjoyed. Being a woman, in that job, you have that…  _ Advantage  _ that you can seduce men into giving you what you want.”

“You’re shitting me, Tyler, right?”

“‘M not. It didn’t happen every time. Just a few occasions. You have no idea how a blowjob and a roll in the hay can make some things so much easier. I never wanted to do that, obviously, but well. You know how it is, orders are orders. So, no, you weren’t my first, but I like the idea that you were. Does that… Does that bother you?”

“Aye, a bit,” he answers - and immediately presses his thumb over her lips so he doesn’t have to hear an apology he doesn’t need. “‘Cause if I’d known… It wouldn’ have happened. Not then. Not that way. You’re a good woman,Tyler. You deserve better. Better than a quick shag. I would have cared more. I would have put you first, given you more. You should have told me how important it was to you, I would have done better.”

“I’m telling you, this was the best I’ve had,” she laughs softly before she kisses the pad of his thumb. “Don’t feel bad about yourself. I’m happy it happened, and I don’t regret how and when it did, yeah? Now shush, and let me sleep, I’m knackered.”

“Oi, you started the conversation and you shush me now? You’ve got some nerve, Tyler.”

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have any. Goodnight, Alec.”

  
  


For the hundredth time, he barely resists the temptation to roll his eyes at the sound of his name. But for the first time, that name makes him smile. He’s getting used to it, and he’s starting to like it. How she calls him by his first name even when she knows he’s asked her to stop times and times again. She does have some nerve. She’s a fiery one, Rose Tyler. Fiery enough to rekindle the desire to seek her attention, to put some efforts into being the kind of man he used to be. The desire to seduce. The desire to care. The desire to exist in the eyes of someone else. In  _ her  _ eyes.

 

He still has no clue what it is they have going on. But he knows he wants something more. 

 

He waits until her breathing has slowed down to a peaceful rhythm, until her hold loosens around his waist and her whole body relaxes. He doesn’t feel quite confident enough to say it when she’s awake. But she’s sleeping now. So, he gently kisses the crown of her head and drapes the cover higher up over her shoulders. And he says it.

  
  


“Goodnight, Rose.”

  
  


No reason why he can’t call her by her first name when she can. She’s in his bed, wrapped around him. But somehow, saying that name makes him feel even closer to her. She’s not Tyler, she’s not boss, she’s not CDI. Just Rose. He likes that. Just Rose. It has a nice ring to it. Just Rose and Alec. 

 

If he could see the stupid grin on his face as he falls asleep in that moment, he’d probably laugh. But he just keeps grinning to himself. There's a first time for everything.

 

* * *

 


	16. Breakfast

* * *

 

 

The sun is barely filtering through a crack in the night sky when he wakes up. A weak orange glow that isn’t enough to break the darkness of the bedroom, just enough to tickle his eyelids. He’s not surprised. He’s too used to waking up early. And, for once, he actually slept through the night without waking up once. It’s quite nice, to wake up without the desire to stay in bed and try to scrape together a few more minutes of restless sleep. He can only guess having a presence on his side has something to do with the lack of stress, of worry, of nightmares.

 

He notices they’ve grown apart during the night. She’s still sound asleep, facing the other way, head nestled deep into the pillow - not deep enough to mute the soft snores she breathes out through her nose. He can’t blame her. That pillow has to be much more comfortable than his skeletal shoulder. He even has to admit, he’s never liked the feeling of a woman sleeping over his shoulder. Not matter how romantic movies and books like to pretend it’s some kind of essential, it’s actually more of a painful cliché than an enjoyable position. 

 

He rolls out of the bed, silent as a shadow, careful not to disturb her deep slumber, picks a few random clothes in his wardrobe, and pads out of the room.

 

Just a few minutes past seven, a quick look at the clock tells him. Early, indeed. He tugs his pair of jeans up his slender legs, slips his arms into a dark blue woolen jumper, shrugs an old coat over his shoulders.

 

After all, it’s Sunday. They don’t have to go to work. They decided they’d only open the case tomorrow. They’ve got the whole day ahead of them - not that he expects her to stick with him throughout the whole of it. But maybe she’d be happy to stay over for breakfast. He would.

 

He writes a short note with a pencil on the back of a receipt,  _ back in a bit _ , and sneaks back into the bedroom to sit it against the lamp on the bedside table. It feels oddly… Domestic. Even more so when he goes back to the kitchen to put two mugs on a tray and start the coffee machine. It’s not a habit he has, to brew fresh coffee in the morning - usually, a mug in the microwave oven is more than enough, and that’s when he even bothers to have any breakfast at all. 

 

It doesn’t take long to make the short trip to and fro the baker’s - one of the few perks of small towns, he supposes. It doesn’t take long to have everything ready, from the few pastries, the sugar, the milk, and the two steaming mugs of fresh coffee carefully ordered on his tray. But then it’s only half past seven. Maybe she likes to sleep in on Sundays. Maybe it’ll be an hour, or two, before she wakes up. Maybe he’ll have to contemplate that tray until the coffee grows cold and the pastries dry.

 

He sighs, paces for a bit, goes to the bedroom door. He pricks his ear, holds his breath, waiting for a sign, any sign that she, too, has had her fill of sleep already. He just can’t see himself rolling his thumbs and staring through the windows without anything better to do than  _ wait _ . Maybe he could ring his own doorbell and pretend it was a cold caller? Nah, not on a Sunday morning at this time. Not believable. Maybe he could drop a glass on the tiles in the kitchen, smash it to pieces, make some noise? Nah, that won’t really work either. He can’t risk her jumping out of the bed in a panic and putting her in a bad mood. Maybe he could just knock? Pretend he has better things to do, pretend he needs her gone by eight thirty so he can go about his business. That would be a bit rude, wouldn’t it? Well, maybe he could...

  
  


“I see your feet under that door, creep,” he suddenly hears her mumble, just before he hears the click of the lamp and her heavy yawn. 

  
  


Well, that settles it, then. He hurries to get his tray in the kitchen, somehow manages to push the handle with his elbow without making a mess of everything, and greets her with a small but warm smile.

  
  


“Morning,” he says softly as he sets his tray down on the bedside table, rather satisfied by the way she eyes that tray, with both surprise and envy.

“Breakfast in bed, uh?” she asks with a raised eyebrow - he toes of his shoes with a pleased grin and plops back in the bed next to her. “What’s the occasion?”

“This could be our last day before we find ourselves in the middle of a shitstorm,” he shrugs, reaching over her to tear a small bit of a croissant he shoves in his mouth. “Might as well enjoy it. I think I’ve got tea, somewhere, if you’d prefer.”

“No, I like coffee,” she smiles, running her thumb on his lower lip - a crumb, he guesses. “Thank you, Alec, that’s… Amazing.”

“Well, return on investment, and all that.”

“Is it? Not sure that’s the kind of return I expected. Not that I mind.”

“I know what you’re referring to,” he tells her, poking his finger into her naked hip. “But it’s not that. This is just to… Dunno, thank you for… Protecting me, I guess. But if you do want the return on  _ that  _ investment... I mean, I could...“

“No, breakfast in bed is good enough, thanks” she grins before she gives his cheek a quick peck. “That whole return on investment thing? I didn’t really mean it anyway. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me something. It’s not how it works. Not for me, at least. I like… Spontaneity. Like unexpected breakfast in bed.”

“Spontaneity, eh?”

  
  


It makes him smile a little, because he has to admit, she’s been nothing short of spontaneous since they met. That word defines her rather well, he thinks. Spontaneous. She’s some kind of free spirit that goes wherever the flow carries her. Free as a wild bird that travels the skies through haphazard whirlwinds, unpredictable as a sudden storm that detonates in the middle of a bright summer day. And still. She’s down-to-earth. Pragmatic. Even when her actions seem to be a little impromptu, there’s still some kind of careful thought behind them. He likes that about her. The kind of chaotic order she builds her life over. 

  
  


“I mean, life is boring enough as it is,” she says between two bites into her butter croissant. “I just hate routine, and schedules, and little habits. Today’s Sunday, what d’you you usually do?”

“Not sure I want you to use me as an example,” he grimaces - he doesn’t want to say his weekends are precisely made of routine and schedules and habits.

“That bad uh? Come on, just tell me.”

“I… Work, most Sundays. Go to the station, pick up a few old cold cases, work on them.”

“Most Sundays?”

“Fine, every Sunday,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest to look miffed when he’s just embarrassed by the uneventfulness of his life. “I live alone in that hutch, I have no friends, no leisure, no anything. What else do you want me to do, Tyler?”

“I have a few ideas,” she smiles - he doesn’t like that smile, that evil little smirk that just screams she’s going to drag him into something horrible. “I know where I’m taking you today.”

“Oi, I’m not a pet you take out where and when you please, Tyler. Whatever your plan is, I’m not going. I like my routine, alright?”

“Fine, suit yourself,” she sighs with a disheartened shrug before she sips on her coffee. “But tomorrow we’re opening a case that could take us ages to solve, and I intend to have fun today. Hopefully not everyone around here is as boring and predictable as you are, Hardy. Maybe I’ll make some new friends.”

  
  


He expected her to insist he should come, he definitely didn’t expect her to give up so fast. Should he be… Disappointed? Well, even if he shouldn’t, he is. It’s a bit selfish -  _ extremely  _ selfish - but just the thought of her going out to make new friends, meet new people, who the Hell knows, maybe meet some other man… That thought, he doesn’t like it. He’s not disappointed. He’s jealous. Jealous that she’s young and carefree, jealous that she can so easily forget about work, about the case, jealous that she’s everything he was once but can never be again. Jealous of her, and oh so fucking disgusted by his own resentment. He’s a tosser. A jealous and resentful tosser. 

  
  


“I’m gonna have a shower, get ready to go to the station,” he tells her - and he feels it, how his face has gone back to its tensed and moody frown. “There’s coffee left in the pot, if you want more.”

“Oi, don’t blame me for your complete inability to cut yourself some slack, Hardy,” she retorts as if she’s heard the reproach in his voice - she  _ did  _ hear it, only she doesn’t know that’s a reproach he only meant for himself. “If you think I’m gonna tire myself out to pull something good out of you, you’re mistaken. I offer, you refuse, fine, not my problem. I’m not gonna beg you. You’re old enough to make your own decisions and it’s not my place to decide whether you’re right or wrong.”

“I just said I didn’t want to come, what’s that preaching about?” he grunts, going to his wardrobe to pick a clean shirt and suit.

“When was the last good day you’ve had, Hardy? A full day, without sulking, without anger, without worry or fear, without feeling like shit? A full day, a day you enjoyed from the moment you woke up to the last minute before sleep? When?”

“What does it have to do with this, Tyler? What should it matter to you how I spend my days? Why do you even care?”

  
  


Despite his quick reflexes, despite his extensive experience with unstable behaviours, despite his steel nerves and cold blood, he still jumps out of his skin when she suddenly slams the door of his wardrobe so hard and so fast he’s scared for a second his whole arm is going to be left behind on that shelf. He spins on his heels and glares at her, furious, livid, almost ready to shove her away and order her to leave. But her hands are on him, now, clutching the wool of his jumper hard, just so she can give him a rough shove and traps him against the wardrobe.

 

He wants her gone. Until he sees her eyes. Oh, she’s just as furious as he is. But it’s a cold fury. Not hot, like his. Freezing. So freezing it reaches out to him, the cold seeping through his clothes, through his skin, deep down to his bones, and he can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but stare into her deep whiskey eyes he’s never really looked at before. Stare, and see the tears that make those beautiful orbs gleam and shine, almost ostentatiously bright.

  
  


“I care,” she starts, anxiously running her hands over the creases she’s made, pulling on the fabric until it’s smooth over his shoulders. “Because I’ve never had a good day in my life. Not once. And this day, today, that would have been my first good day. Until you decided I didn’t deserve to have my good day. And that’s not fair. You’re not fair. Just ‘cause you can’t let yourself be happy doesn’t mean you can rob the others of their own happiness. I wanted to spend the day with you, ‘cause I like you. You don’t want that, fine, okay. But don’t be disappointed by your own decision and shove it all back into my face. That’s not fair, Hardy. That’s  _ not  _ fucking fair.”

“You knew full well I would refuse, I don’t even know why you bothered to ask!” he exclaims with a big fake smile that makes him wince internally and a shake of the head that looks nothing but condescending. “It’s about time you got it, Rose! Look at me! Look at me and tell me you believed, really believed, I’m the kind of bloke who wants to have fun on Sundays! Tell me I’m the kind of bloke you’d want to have fun with on a sunny day, the kind of bloke you’d want to share just a few hours of your life with!”

“I don’t want to share time with you,” she admits after a shaky, broken sigh - he grits his teeth and mutters his anger under his breath, just when she slowly sits on the edge of the mattress and looks down to the the tip of her feet. “There’s this bloke I like, you know.”

  
  


Of course there’s another one, and he’s even more angry against himself for having believed, even for a second, that he ever stood and chance with this woman.

  
  


“I met him, not so long ago, just before I met you,” she says - how does she dare look at him with a smile, like she’s mocking him, teasing him,  _ you’re such an idiot, Hardy _ . “He’s nice. Really nice. Handsome, too. Much younger than you are.”

“You should go, Tyler,” he interrupts, suddenly fascinated by that spot of dirt on the carpet. “It was a bad idea for you to come here.”

“I think you know him,” she continues, unfazed by his interruption. “I’m not sure you like him, but I think you know him. Alec, that’s his name.  _ Really  _ good bloke.”

“Oh, you think that’s clever, don’t you? I’m not some kind of schizo psycho with a split personality, Tyler.”

“Then just for once, be fucking honest. How can you go from happy good bloke to ginormous angry tosser within the span of two minutes, Hardy? What makes you tick? What did I say to flick your bloody kill switch? Why do you make me want to like you one second and want to kill you the next?”

“Why?  _ Why _ ?”

  
  


He chuckles loudly, runs his fingers through his hair, looks at her, at the walls, at the window, at whatever his eyes fall on as they fly from one side of the room to the other, he paces like a madman, one tiny step to the right, one tiny step to the left, he doesn’t even know what to answer, doesn’t even remember what the question is, doesn’t remember why, or how, or when such a pleasant morning has turned into the worst of his nightmares.

 

She catches his hand, and it’s not a gentle grip. It’s cinching, crushing his shaky fingers, locking his thumb between their two palms. He glares at her again when she pulls hard and he has to stop pacing. He glares at her, but he sees her through his anger. Rose. He doesn’t remember the questions, but he remembers the answer. Rose.

  
  


“Because I’m scared,” he answers - and though his voice comes out soft, almost a whisper, it sounds deafening in the silence that follows the death of the furious buzz in his ears. “You scare me. Because I like you and it’s only been a few days. Because I like you. And I’d rather you didn’t like me.”

“But I do, Alec,” she says, pulling him a bit harder so he has to sit down on the bed next to her. “I like you. You know that. You know that because, unless I’m wrong, I’m one of the few who try to understand you. But... It’s your choice, Alec, not mine. I won’t insist. But if you don’t want that, if you don’t want me, stop acting like you do. I can’t have you being all sweet and amazing one moment if you’re only gonna ruin it all a moment later. I’m not… Asking you to choose anything, by the way. I’m just asking you to be coherent. Either you decide to be the nice bloke you can be, or keep pretending you’re a tosser. Either is fine with me. But you can’t be both. I’m not desperate Alec. I like you, but I won’t fight for someone who’s constantly trying to prove me wrong.”

  
  


He feels her. Slipping away. That one chance he’s been given, it’s slipping away. Because he’s coward. Because he’s an idiot. Because he sees her, now, clearer than he’s even seen her before. She’s a person. Not a character from a book or a movie who’s going to wait for him to be struck by some kind of divine intervention to make a move. Not some kind of shapeless figure whose only purpose is to stand there until he comes to his senses. He had this strange notion that she was there, a constant, a pin on a map that would never move, a timeless presence that would never disappear. As if… As if he’s the only one to decide when and where he would take action, as if he’s the main character and only he possesses the means to make things happen - or not happen.

 

But Rose, though she’s here, now, she might be somewhere else tomorrow. And here, now, is the only moment he can decide how he wants things to happen. Decide if he wants to try to be better, for her, for himself, or if he wants to remain stuck in that bloody routine of anger and nothingness until he dies.

 

She’s slipping away. This chance, this unhoped for chance, he’s letting it go because he’s too scared. What if it doesn’t work out? What if he ends up even more broken than he already is? What if she grows tired of him after a while? What if he just can’t change?

 

He looks down at their hands, tightly linked together, resting there, on her thigh. Oh, no, he’s not letting go of that chance. He holds on to it, tighter, brings his other hand over this entangling of fingers to secure the link. If he lets go, now, it’s over. He can’t let go.

 

So, he squeezes both of their hands and decides that if he can’t be a nice bloke with everyone, he can at least try to be a good bloke just for her.

  
  


“I won’t happen overnight, Rose,” he tells her - maybe it’s not what she expected, maybe just those few words actually ruined his chance, but at least it’s honest. “I can’t turn into someone I’m not. I’ll still be angry, sometimes, even when I don’t want to.”

“‘Course you will, that’s who you are,” she smiles when she brings his face closer to hers, brushes his nose against hers. “I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m just asking you… When you feel angry, or scared, talk to me. I want to understand you, Alec. I can’t if all you do is throw tantrums and lash out. I can’t, and even if I could, I wouldn’t try to. I won’t make any efforts if you don’t either. Does that seem fair to you?”

“Aye, it does. Would you… Let me try again? Let me answer something different?”

“Answer what?”

  
  


Not letting go of her hand, he pulls her with him, lies down on the bed, wraps his arm around her waist and allows her to snuggle against him. That looks about right. He thinks back, to what she said, but doesn’t try try to remember the words that rolled like acid on his tongue, doesn’t try to remember what sparked his anger. He just remembers what she said, and remembers the hope in her voice he had refused to notice, refused to hear. And he tries again.

  
  


“And where exactly do you want to take me today?”

 

* * *

 


	17. Awe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: NSFW

* * *

 

 

He’s beyond second-guessing. He’s beyond doubting. He’s beyond trying to figure out what he can or cannot do, what is right, what is wrong. He’s at this point where he knows doubting, even for a second, could imperil the whole future of his relationship with this wonderful woman. He can’t risk it. Not that way. 

 

Oh, he knows it might go wrong, at some point. After all, they don’t know that much about each other just yet. He can’t secure the feelings, but he sure as Hell can secure the hope. Don’t doubt. Don’t second guess. If he wants her to know the kind of man he really is, the kind of man he can be, he just has to show her. Tell her. What he would do, what he would say. He feels… Liberated. Free to experience the feelings he has for her to their fullest. 

 

No more stupid questions. Does she really like him? Yes. No beating around the bush, she said she does, so she does. Is he really too old for her? No, he doesn’t have to be. He just has to accept she’s younger, understand the consequences of that difference and deal with it. Is he too much of tosser to be with her? Maybe. No. She doesn’t think he is, so he’s not. Does he really like her? Fuck yes. He likes her, and he bloody  _ wants  _ to like her. He wants her, he desires her, he hungers for everything she is. 

 

Stupid, so stupid questions with obvious, so obvious answers.  _ One  _ obvious answer. Just fucking be himself and see where that’s gonna lead him. That’s it. Easy. 

  
  


“I can hear your brain working,” she chuckles, resting her chin over the hands she’s crossed over his chest. “I don’t know what’s going on inside your little head, but I’m guessing you’re not really keen on sharing, are you?”

“You told me I should let you know when I’m in a dangerous mood,” he grins as his large palm finds its way to her cheek. “You never told me I should tell you everything that goes through that thick brain of mine.”

“But right now, what are you thinking about?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Well,  _ you  _ is more of a...  General theme,” he says with a thoughtful pout, rolling a strand of her blond hair around his finger. “I do have more precise thoughts and ideas. Not sure I can tell you about every single one of them. But I can show you one or two things I’m thinking about right now. Unless… You’re in a hurry to go, God knows where it is you want to take me today.”

“Yeah, talking about that, you… You won’t like it, Alec,” she shrugs - she doesn’t seem to realize her fingers have slipped under his tee-shirt and are tracing every valley and hill on his chest. “ It was a terrible idea. We don’t have to go anywhere, don’t worry.”

“Oi, honesty is a two-way road, Rose, you can’t expect me to share if you don’t share some back,” he huffs -  _ tries  _ to huff, and fails, because her fingers are distracting and to be fair he’s rather seduced by the prospect of staying in that bed for the rest of the day. “Where do you want to go?”

  
  


She smiles just a bit sheepishly, and he has to remind himself, whatever she’s going to say, he can’t show he’s disappointed or annoyed. No, he’ll listen, say yes, enjoy it, because what matters is her and spending time with her. It seems she notices the determination on his face. She laughs quietly, runs her thumb over the wrinkle that cuts through his eyebrows, kisses the crinkle at the corner of his mouth. 

  
  


“When I was in the army, we had a tradition,” she starts to explain after he manages to relax his features into a soft but attentive expression. “Whenever we were permitted a leave, mostly on Sundays, we would all go together to the amusement park. It was a bit crap, but it was close to the camp. And ‘cause we went there almost every weekend, we ended up having free yearly tickets.”

“So you… Want to go to the amusement park today, is that it?” he raises his eyebrows - well, that’s definitely a good way to try his patience and newly acquired resolutions. 

“There’s this funfair just a few miles away. If that can make you feel better, I don’t want to go for the rides. We always had the same competition going on, with us being soldiers, you know. Who could win the most prizes at the shooting gallery with just twenty quid. I thought… Just for old time’s sake, maybe we could go. And now I’m saying it, I realize it’s just a stupid idea. Nevermind, Hardy, I shouldn’t have…”

“About ten years ago, when I was still working in Sandbrook, me and Sim, a colleague, we used to take our kids to the funfair,” he interrupts, the memory bringing a grin to his face. “Our wives never understood why the kids always got home in such a bad mood. We never told them we spent half the budget allocated to the kids’ rides on the shooting gallery. We would just let them enjoy their merry-go-rounds for half and hour and spend the rest of the afternoon drinking piss lager and shooting balloons. Among other things. I still have a scar on my butt. Definitely not my proudest moments.”

“If that’s only to make me feel better, it’s kinda working,” she chuckles, obviously relieved enough for her fingers to go back to their precise mapping of his chest “So…”

“So... We can go shoot a few balloons. If you want. I’d like that.”

  
  


He’s pleased to see her smile, to hear her laugh. Pleased that he’s made her happy. But mostly pleased he can still find it in himself to enjoy the prospect of such an outing. He surprises himself. Maybe he’s still capable to enjoy the little good things life has to offer. And because Rose Tyler is definitely more than just a little good thing, he doesn’t just enjoy her presence. He loves it. Very much. And he loves her fingers, still treading their slow path all across his chest, his abdomen, her nails scratching his coarse hair, her palms caressing his skin, and,  _ shit _ , she’s just teased his nipple on purpose, hasn’t she?

 

It’s still early. They still have time. Maybe the balloons can wait for a bit. 

  
  


“Do you still want to know what I was thinking about?” he breathes out, clasping his hand over hers through his jumper, stopping the journey of her warm fingers so he can focus better on the journey of his own.

“Dunno, will I like it?”

“I think you will.”

  
  


That’s his moment to show her what he has in mind, and that’s his moment to show her he hasn’t forgotten what it means to give, to share. The bloody balloons can wait, because he really wants to take his time. He won’t rush anything. He doesn't want to miss anything. He wants to see her. All of her. Draw a map of her body with so many details he’s going to find spots she’s not even aware of. She told him she doesn’t know what it’s like, to make love, and while he won’t say those words just yet because they imply way to much, he can still show her what they mean.

 

He gently helps her roll away from him so she’s lying there, in his bed, an aura of vulnerability about her that doesn’t quite match the fire in her eyes. She’s staring at him, that hint of sensual expectation in those whiskey orbs, and she might be the most beautiful woman he’s ever found in his bed. No, not just in his bed. Anywhere. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

 

His lips find hers in a slow, languid kiss that makes him forget he’s ever kissed her before. He tries to store everything he’s feeling in a corner of his brain, but there’s so much to learn, so much to take in he’s already thinking about the next time, and the next, and the next. How her tongue still, however faintly, tastes like coffee, along with the lingering sweetness of the pastry. How the apple of her cheek, as he kisses her deeper, digs his nose further into the softness of her round cheekbone, smells just a bit like his laundry softener, and a lot like the strawberry perfume he could now recognize among a hundred others. How warm, how soft, how fragile she is under his hands and under his mouth, under his whole body he moulds into hers, his bones, his muscles begging for the surrender of her own. 

 

Fuck, he likes that. Fuck, he likes her. He feels it, the throb that’s already making his jeans uncomfortably tight, the heat that makes his hip buck ever so slightly against her leg. He ignores it. Not now. Not until he deserves it.

 

He trails his mouth down her chin, down her neck where the smell of her perfume is still pungent despite the shower she had the night before. He sees the scar he spotted the day before, the nacre line that draws a wobbly path from behind her ear to disappear under her tank top. He follows it up with the tip of his tongue, resists the temptation to nip and bite, sucks her lobe into his mouth. Finally, she sighs his name,  _ Alec _ , and he can tick off that sound from the list of delicious sounds he wants to hear.

  
  


“You’ll have to tell me about that scar, later,” he whispers into her ear before his lips go on another journey.

  
  


After a short moment of hesitation, they just go back to kiss her mouth. He likes this mouth. He likes kissing her. And while he does, his fingertips carefully explore every inch of her sternum, learn the elegant shape of her clavicles, try to read what she’s feeling in the goosebumps that turn her delicate flesh into a braille translation of her desire. He loves touching her, especially there, on an area of her body everyone else can see, but an area only he will ever caress with that kind of almost sacrosanct reverence. An area only he will ever see coloured with a bright flush of passion, a pinkish red that spreads like wildfire all the way up to her cheeks he feels getting a few degree warmer against his own. 

 

_ Alec _ . It’s not a sigh, this time, it’s another variation of his name he longed to hear, some kind of moan lined with thread of supplication. Rose, all she’ll ever have to do is ask, and he’ll give her everything and anything she could want. 

 

He wants to straddle her waist, because the throb is getting heavier, perhaps verging on painful, and he thinks the hardness of her pelvis against his erection might help. But with that stupid height of his, he won’t be able to do what he wants, what she wants, what they both want, if he sits over her hips So, instead, he hurries to pop the button of his jeans, lowers his fly, grabs his hard length through his boxers and gives it a few harsh tugs. Just a bit of stimulation to alleviate the raging need - maybe he should be embarrassed the front of his underwear is already darkened with a spot of precum, but he isn’t. 

  
  


“Alec, if you need…” she begins to say between heavy breaths, her eyes drawn to the jerking movement of his hand.

  
  


Oh no, she’s not supposed to be more coherent than he is. He needs to fix that. One last flick of his wrist, one last growl he silently swallows, and his hands are tugging on her tank top, pulling it up her body, over her head. He throws it over his shoulder, not caring where it lands, his eyes devouring the sight of her heaving breasts. The flush on her sternum grows a shade darker, and he realizes he’s licking his lips like a wild beast ready to pounce. He remembers that’s not what he wants. He wants to be better than a wild beast. Take his time. Be gentle.

 

He falls on an elbow, nestles his cheek on the soft warmth of her taut abdomen. And his hand, he lets it ride up her side until it reaches the light swell of her right breast. He closes his eyes, listens to all of those beautiful sounds echoing through her body, from the buzz that courses through her skin, to the loud, irregular sound of her breathing. And he smiles, when his thumb circles her nipple and he hears the hitch in her breathing, at the same time the body under his stubbled cheek tense. But as much as he loves that…

 

He fully raises on one arm, fully cups her breast in his palm, feeling the nipple harden even more under his touch. His lips close around the other, and the tip of his tongue paints moist circles against the bud.  _ Alec _ , he barely hears her gasp, his ears momentarily befuddled by the sound her fingers make when they get lost on the side of his face before they find an anchor through his hair. He feels it, how she rubs her thighs together. He feels it really well, even, when her knee rises and presses against his hardness. His feral groan makes her flesh tremble under his lips, and he pins her with a heated stare when she ostentatiously rubs that knee against him. She can’t have the upper hand. Later, she can. Not now.

 

He releases her breast with a wet pop, inhales deeply to fuel his lungs and oxygenate his brain. His fingers hook into the waistband of her flimsy shorts and he pulls them down her legs in one swift motion. And she’s bare, before him, an offering that only fans the flames of his own desire. She’s bloody beautiful. But... Why is she suddenly biting her lip? That’s not desire in her eyes anymore. That’s… Shame? Insecurity?

  
  


“Rose?” he says softly, caressing her calves, the side of her thighs he feels shaking under his fingers.

“Sorry,” she breathes out, the way her eyes can’t look into his more eloquent than words. “No one’s ever… I’ve never… You know. ‘M just a bit… Nervous.”

“But do you want this, Rose? I won’t do anything if you don’t want me to, you know that.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I want this.”

“Good,” he smiles - there’s not a hint of teasing, and he’s even surprised by the quiet reassurance in his own voice. “Just relax, eh, sweetheart? I’ll take it slow.”

  
  


Fuck’s sake, he can’t believe he gets to be  _ that  _ first. Oh, it’s nothing presumptuous. He feels more honored than anything else. No one’s properly worshiped this body before him. No one’s given this wonderful woman the attention she deserves before him. If the sudden worry had somehow smothered his passion, now it’s coming back with even more intensity, a roaring energy that makes him painfully aware he’s long and hard against the mattress. He hasn’t felt that way for a long time. Felt like he could come in in pants without any other stimulation than his own imagination and feelings. And maybe a bit of rutting against the sheet. No, Rose first. Today out of all days.  _ Rose _ . 

 

He presses a long kiss on her right knee, kneads the tensed flesh of her legs, caresses the smooth expense of her perfect skin - there are a few other scars, here and there, but they look more like precious ornaments than flaws. More kisses, open, wet, between murmured words he hopes will help her relax and fully appreciate the moment. It takes some time to take her there, but he enjoys every second of it. To know he can soothe her fears, to know he can bring her the comfort and the reassurance she needs, to know she… 

 

He has to close his eyes when his lips reach the juncture of her leg and he smells her arousal, thick and sweet, strong and delicious.  _ Fuck  _ \- he doesn’t know if he mutters it under his breath or screams it in the confines of his brain, but  _ fuck _ , he did that. He looks up to stare into her eyes, mouth hanging half-open and nostrils flaring so he doesn’t miss one breath, one taste of what he’s doing to her. Still, he needs her approval before he does anything more. She nods. But he sees it. He feels it. She’s not quite convinced the experience is as pleasing for him as it is for her. 

 

His eyes bore into hers, and he’s intent to prove her wrong. He runs a single finger through her folds, struggling not to close his eyes in pleasure when he feels her desire coat his skin.  _ Fuck  _ \- and this time he knows he only says it in his head, because his mouth and tongue are busy sucking and licking that finger until the only wetness left is his own saliva.

  
  


“More?” he asks, almost begs of her, his voice heavy with want and deep with desire.

“Please,” is her only answer before he spreads her legs further apart and her head falls back against the headboard.

  
  


He starts with a just a bit of teasing, but he knows he won’t be able to tease for long. She’s already shifting her hips, already groaning his name, already slick with arousal. He uses the ghost of his breath, at first, letting her expect his touch, letting her guess, letting her enjoy the thrill of this new experience. But soon, it’s too much. She pleads him again, a bit louder, tugs gently on his hair. Whatever Rose wants, Rose gets.

 

Her taste explodes on his tongue, and surely his growl is enough to properly convince her he  _ really  _ enjoys it. Stupid male pride. He did this. He lifts one of her legs, drapes it around his shoulder, and a finger joins his mouth. Then a second. He pumps them, slowly at first, seeking that one rougher patch he hopes will make her swoon. There. The pull on his hair becomes more insistent, more desperate.  _ Alec _ . Another gasp. He wants to hear more. He wants to hear better. 

 

He sucks her clit between his lips, careful not to use his teeth just yet, teases her bud with unhurried, soft circles of his tongue.  _ Alec _ . It’s more of a loud moan, now, a loud moan she repeats between curses and incoherent strings of words. His fingers move with more urgency but no less tenderness, quick and delicate, always finding the spot that makes her own fingers tighten around his hair. He doesn’t try to still her hips, only accompanies their movement, doesn’t protest when her toes dig into his spine. She’s close. And she’s beautiful.

 

He’s awed by the sight of her, by the beautiful shapes of her body he can only witness from this angle. He’s awed, but not enough to forget what he’s doing. She’s close. He moans against her flesh and presses his tongue against her clit, just a bit harder, presses his fingers against her spot, just a bit harder. Just a bit harder, just a bit quicker.  _ Harder _ .  _ Quicker _ .

 

_ Alec _ . That’s the scream he’s been wanting to hear. She flutters around his fingers, thrashes against his face, threatens to pull his hair out. Fuck, she’s beautiful. Fuck, he’s even harder, now. He wills his body to relax, focuses on bringing her down from her high with gentle caresses and soft kisses on her thighs. It’s not enough. It helps, to take care of her, make sure she’s fine, just to keep his thoughts away from his weeping cock, but it’s not quite enough.

 

He’s a bit bewildered when she suddenly pulls on his shoulders, pulls him back up, and she has this look on her face, a look that says,  _ that was amazing, but I still need you.  _ He’s not sure that’s how he wants this first experience to end, but then she’s helping him take off his jumper, his tee-shirt, running her hands all over him, slipping her fingers under the waistband of his boxers and…

 

_ Alec _ ? That’s a question, he’s not sure what question, not even sure it’s a question, but the pad of her thumb runs over the head of his erection, her hand gives his hard length a hard squeeze, and all he can do is find an answer.

  
  


“Condom, left drawer,” he grunts as he hurries to slip out of his tight jeans and curses at the boxers that won’t fall from his uncoordinated feet. 

  
  


He doesn’t know how exactly it happens, it’s kind of a blur, but suddenly he’s naked, sheathed into her slick heat and kissing her like it’s his only means to breathe. He doesn’t mind her nails raking his back, he doesn’t mind her teeth digging into his lip, he doesn’t mind the growing fire between their frictionning bodies. It’s too much and not enough. He’s been on the edge of his release for too long. He needs more. And he needs it fast.

 

He gives her full mouth one last thorough kiss before he brings both of her legs across his shoulders, folds over her and grips the headboard between his sweaty fingers. He pounds into her, quick, hard, desperate for all that pent-up passion to explode and the sweet rush of relief that orgasm is going to be. He stares into her eyes, sees they’re bright with renewed desire for him. He bites his teeth into the soft skin of her wrist when she cups his cheek, soothes the bite with a kiss.

  
  


“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” she whispers, so low he’s not sure he should have heard it.

  
  


He didn’t really believe her when she said those exact same words, on the first night they spent together. He might have, at some point, even if it had just been an indifferent acceptance of her opinion. But now, she makes him feel gorgeous, and he does feel gorgeous. Gorgeous and young and strong. Like he’s gone back two decades, when he still was a handsome and charming man full of life and expectations.

 

He thrusts deeper into her, harder, faster, tries to rub his pelvis against her clit, tries to tease her nipples, tries to do so many things at once he ends up doing nothing but chase after his release and hope she’ll run along with him. He’s lost amidst the sounds, the smells, lost in the depth of her eyes and the feel of her tight heat around his cock. He slams his hips against her now, swallows small gasps of fresh air to feed his groans. Harder, so hard his thrusting makes her whole body slide up the mattress a bit each time. Faster, so fast his muscles burn in protest, but he knows he can’t slow down, can’t stop, God he can’t stop now, and he rams even harder, even faster into her. 

  
  


“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growls, grunts, howls between his greeted teeth, an almost animalistic strength in his movements.

  
  


He has to close his eyes, beads of sweat rolling down his slanted nose, and all he can do now is listen to what’s happening and feel what’s happening. He’s so close. Fuck, he’s so close. That’s what he feels. Close, so close. The burn at base of his spine and fire roaring in his loins. 

  
  


The bed creaks, Rose moans, Rose pants, he hears a thundercrack and feels the sting on his arse a second later, he hears the wet, regular, fast-paced slap of their joining bodies, the bed creaks some more, bangs against the wall, Rose screams his name again. The last sound he hears is his own shout as he buries himself to the hilt one last time and stops, coming hard, fast, hips barely bucking at each spurt of his semen pooling in the condom, dots of light flickering on and off behind his eyelids. 

 

He lets go of her legs, collapses on top of her, buries his face into the crook of her neck. He’s spent and sweaty and dirty, but damn he feels good. And Rose… Fuck. Rose. He’s suddenly dragged out of his happy daze by a gnawing worry. He didn’t… He wasn’t… It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. He said… He told her he’d be caring and gentle. But that… 

 

He pushes himself up on his elbow, his head slightly shaking from one side to the other, lips parted in a silent apology. She’s smiling. Holding his face between her soft hands, and smiling.

  
  


“You’re amazing, Alec,” she whispers - and why does he believe her, he doesn’t know.

“That second act wasn’t quite planned,” he chuckles, a breathy and quivering laugh. “This was… Supposed to be about you.”

“I came twice, I don’t know how you could have made this more about me,” she teases, still smiling, still looking at him with that kind of hazy fondness in her eyes. “It was amazing, Alec, I promise. That was my best first time so far. Not bad, for a tosser.”

“You liked it then? That one first time?”

  
  


She doesn’t answer with words, but she kisses him again, another slow, deep and wonderful kiss. Yes, she liked it. Good. That’s really good. He’s proud. No, not really. Maybe a bit. But mostly, he’s just happy. Happy she’s still here, in his arms. Happy she gave him another chance. Happy she can never forget him, now.

 

He nuzzles her cheek, basking in her warmth and her comfort, lets his hands wander on her naked arms. 

  
  


“We should have a shower,” he says softly - oh, he hates to break the mood, and as comfy and snug he feels in her embrace, part of him is growing rather  _ un _ comfy. “Then we can go to the funfair, and when we come back I could help you put your bed together, aye?”

“ _ Aye _ ,” she parrots with an awful accent - though when he winces, it has more to do with her hands pulling off the condom than her accent. “Think you broke yours, by the way. You’ll have to invest in a more sturdy one, Hardy, ‘cause I’m afraid my Ikea furniture is not exactly designed to resist angry shagging Scots.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” she grins at him as she gets up from the bed and holds out a hand to him. “Shower?”

  
  


He looks at her, standing there, gloriously naked, beautifully confident. And he knows he can’t ever shy away from his feelings again when all he can think about is,  _ I can’t wait to hold her in my arms again _ . 

 

* * *

 


	18. Black Box

* * *

 

 

He feels.... Bubbly. Yes, bubbly. What an odd word, he thinks, but it’s probably the one that fits the most, and he’s not about to complain. It’s a nice feeling.

 

To finally feel properly alive. Not just merely wandering in an endless time loop where he was but a ghost that had to relive the most dull and annoying day of his life. Something changed. Rose happened. She barged in, kicked his arse and made him tumble back into the stream of existence. He exists again. He’s someone again. Not just a body with a wobbly-beating heart and breathing lungs that stands still in the eye of the storm.

 

Oh yes, what a nice feeling.

 

To finally feel properly peaceful. No quite happy yet, but he doesn’t feel like he can never smile again, which is good. It’s going to take some time to forget his bad habits and smooth the sharp edges of his temper, but he doesn’t feel like he can never be anything else that a complete tosser, which is good. It’s going to be difficult to adapt to this new perspective on life and understand he deserves it, but he doesn’t feel like he can never escape the prison he built around himself so long ago, which is good. It’s going to be a long and tortuous way to happiness, but he doesn’t feel like he can’t ever hope again, which is wonderful.

 

And with the word bubbly comes the word talkative, and that’s probably what he likes the most about that ridiculous, almost childish word. To feel like he wants to talk. It’s the weight of all those words he’s kept to himself for so many years that made his steps and his heart heavy. Truths that needed to be said, stories that needed to be told, feelings that needed to be shared. No wonder he gets furious all the time, for petty reasons, sometimes no reason at all. All those words inside, they collect into clusters of anger, like a congregation of little firecrackers. One spark, even the smallest, and all blows up. But now… Now he wants to get it out. Get it all out. Oh, it won’t be an easy, nor a quick process. He’s not sure how many firecrackers are still threatening to explode inside his chest, but he can only guess there’s enough to celebrate the Chinese new year, grandiose way.

 

Still. He’s smiling. Not a big goofy grin that would hurt his cheeks and disappear after a minute. Just a small smile, as if helium balloons have been attached to the corners of his lips and pull them up. Effortless. Instinctive. Spontaneous.

 

He suddenly remembers he’s going to shoot balloons with a spontaneous woman. 

 

The sound of the shower that starts in the bathroom as he picks out clean underwear and towels from his cupboard. It’s odd at first, to hear it when he’s standing there in the bedroom. He’s so used to be alone, so used to live in silence, so used to being alert at all times, a frown almost falls on his face. Almost, because he spots the shorts with the cartoonish cats and the white tank top on the carpet, and he remembers the spontaneous woman is the one in the shower. It makes his smile just a wee bit bigger.

 

He stops at the threshold, momentarily taken aback by the sight not even his most erotic fantasies could have put together. Her naked body under the shower spray, her supple curves and lean muscles drawn by the way the light and shadow play on the water. A body carved out of pure strength and delicate femininity. A careful and beautiful balance  between hard and soft, fragile and unbreakable. She’s bare, beautiful, vulnerable, but there’s an aura around her that makes the hairs on his forearms rise up, as if he’s been swallowed by a wave of static electricity. He likes what she does to him. 

  
  


“Are you going to stand there and ogle until I’m done or are you gonna join me?” she asks with a smirk, looking at him above her shoulder with a seductive flutter of her eyelashes.

“I could do both,” he answers as he puts down his bundle by the sink. “Join you, then stand there and ogle. Might even be a better view.”

“Just come here, before the water runs cold.”

  
  


And so he does. He’s always complained his shower was too small, even for one person, but now he doesn’t mind as much. Quite the opposite, in fact. He steps into it and, as expected, it’s a rather tight fit. He has to mould his body against her, his chest against her back, his crotch against the small of her back, his chin nestled into the crook of her neck. Like most women he’s met, she seems to enjoy her water hot - so hot her skin has turned a pretty shade of red on the softest spots. He’s glad his shower doesn’t have a door - not enough space to have a proper cubicle, it’s just a square dug in the corner protected by a glass panel. Even in this half-open space, the atmosphere in that little confine is boiling, steamy, stifling. He can’t complain. We won’t tell her. 

 

He wraps his arms around her waist and his lips whisper a few kisses along the scar that stands out on her reddened neck. 

  
  


“How did you get it?” he asks through a breath just loud enough to be heard above the water pattering at their feet. “The scar?”

“Sorry to say, not exactly heroic circumstances,” she answers just as quietly, lacing her fingers through his over her belly. “It was a classified operation, I can’t tell you what happened, but… Crime boss and broken wine bottle in a bedroom. I’ll let you imagine the story.”

“Not sure I want to,” he shrugs and squeezes her fingers tighter when he feels the shiver that courses through her body despite the hot water. “I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.”

“You can ask me anything, Alec, you know that. Only, some questions I can’t answer, and some others… I’d just rather not answer.”

“Would you ever lie to me if I asked something you don’t want to tell?”

  
  


He doesn’t know if her silence is supposed to be an answer - he hopes it isn’t, because he’s not sure he could bear having to doubt everything that comes out of her mouth. If she can lie, then who knows, maybe she’s been lying to him from the start. No, no, that’s a treacherous path he’s treading, he can’t go that way, and he deems it better to swallow the ball of uncertainty that’s growing in his throat. 

 

He watches as she reaches for his bottle of shampoo on the shower shelf and squeezes a large blob in the palm of her hand. She spins around, a small, sheepish smile on her face as if she’s asking for his permission. He nods his assent, bows his head a little and closes his eyes with a quiet sigh. Her hands gently rub his hair, her fingertips digging into his scalp, massaging his head, and, God, he had completely forgotten how good it feels.

  
  


“I’ve been a professional liar all my life, Alec,” she suddenly says, her thumbs running in tight circles over his temples - oh darn, that feels  _ amazing _ , but what is it about her being a liar? “I’ve lied so much, for so long, I can’t even tell a memory from a lie, sometimes. I’m not even sure… I don’t really know who I am. When I was a little girl, I was just Rose, fine and dandy Rose pretending to smile so a foster family would pick me. When I was in the military, I was just Tyler, good little soldier pretending to love the job when I wasn’t given a choice. When I worked for the MIs, I was code names, and fake names. Sometimes I was no one, just numbers. When you pretend to be someone you’re not for so long, you start to forget who you are.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he tries to comfort her - he feels her hands start to shake, sees the way she bites her trembling lip, and he understands how hard it must be for her to talk about that past. “It was a stupid question, I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s alright, Alec I want you to know. What I want to say is just… I’m tired of lying and pretending. You’re the first person I don’t have to lie to. Being honest is the kind of freedom I’ve never had before. But now, I can be. With you, I can be honest, and I can finally be myself. You can help me figure out who I am, and that’s precious to me. I would never betray you or your trust in me, so, no, I won’t ever lie to you.”

“Thank you, lass,” he smiles, because he’s grateful she’s willing to be truthful, a small smile because he’s quite sure this promise doesn’t include lie by omission. “Then when we’re done here, will you tell me what’s in your bag?”

  
  


He saw it just before he went out to get his morning pastries, and it seems he was right to wonder when the steady rhythm of her hands falter. She lowers her eyes, shakes her head lightly as if to answer,  _ no _ , then shrugs as if to answer,  _ maybe _ , then sighs as if to answer,  _ yes _ . It wasn’t his intention to ambush her with his question - he simply wants to know. But she looks like all she wants is to scurry away. Ashamed. Insecure. He knows she’s hiding something, and not so long ago, he would probably have tried to coax the truth out of her with a glare or a threat. Right now, he’s a step ahead of his temper.

 

He remains calm, quiet, and starts to rub his hands over her shoulders, up her arms, laces his fingers with the ones still buried in his hair. And he brings them against his chest, and he leans towards her, and he lets his forehead meet hers.

  
  


“I’m not angry, aye?” he whispers between two tender pecks on her lips. “It wasn’t a trick question, Rose. ‘M just curious. Will you? Tell me?”

“Let’s just shower and dress first, Alec. I’ll tell you. When we’re outside.”

“Is it that bad? Investigation-related? Is it dangerous?”

“Please, Alec, no more questions until we’re out,” she moans as she nudges him in the chest to push him away, obviously irritated - somehow, the already boiling heat of the shower turns a few degrees warmer, just a tad heavier. “You just have to wait for the less opportune moment to ask your bloody questions, haven’t you? Detective technique, is it? Think you can get answer more easily if you take me by surprise?”

“‘Kay, just because I want to be honest with you as well, I’m letting you know, now I’m angry. In case you didn’t notice, I’m trying to be sensible, Rose. I’m bloody trying. It was just a question alright? You said you’d be honest, well, so much for bloody honesty.”

“I know, sorry, I’m sorry, Alec,” she sighs, letting her wet hand slide down his chest. “Just… Five minutes, okay? When we’re out.”

  
  


He only shrugs in return and makes a quick job of rinsing the remnants of lather from his body. He can’t stay here. Not in this horrible sauna, not with those heated feelings, that anger and that bitterness he can’t fully master just yet, simmering in the pit of his stomach. Better to go away, take a few deep breaths and try to find that stupid bubbly spirit that’s now gone - it’s a stupid word and a stupid feeling, but he bloody enjoyed it while it lasted.

 

He steps out of the shower before she can stop him, snatches a clean towel he secures around his waist and closes the door behind him before she can call out for him. He blows a heavy breath of relief through his nose at the sudden coolness that envelops his whole body, and that alone is enough to soothe his nerves. If whatever they have going on lasts long enough for them to share more showers, he’ll definitely have to tell her. Only if it lasts long enough… 

 

He sees her bag from the corner of his eye, knows there’s something in there that doesn’t belong in the bag of a woman who just planned to spend the night. He ignores it. She’ll tell him. She promised. Kind of. 

 

It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to dry himself off and slip into a white shirt and that pair of jeans she seems to love - he’s not bummed enough not to try to look good for her. He’s just about to lace his shoes when she reappears, wrapped tight into a towel, and anger be damned, he’s once again struck by her sheer beauty. It’s not just her body. Everything about her is the epitome of beautiful. It’s probably her confidence that makes her so attractive in his eyes. The way she strides towards her bag that’s sitting right next to him, loses her towel on the way and stands inches away from him in all her naked glory. 

  
  


“Here,” she tells him as she reaches into her bag and hands him the reason for their little quarrel - she sounds so apologetic, looks so sorry, and so forgivable wearing nothing but her smooth skin and big whiskey eyes, he can only let his resentment go. “Please, don’t turn it off.”

“So…” he starts after clearing his throat, momentarily distracted by the full breasts on display right here under his nose when she bends to fetch her underwear in the depth of her bag. “What is it exactly? Souvenir from your James Bond period?”

“I suppose you could say that,” she tries to grin but doesn’t quite manage to still the tremors of her lips enough, hooking her bra and letting the waistband of her lace knickers snap around her waist. “It’s a com scrambler.”

“And you have that in your bag because…”

  
  


She rolls her eyes as if the answer should be obvious - but to him, it’s not, not at all. She takes her time to pull a jumper over her head - how she manages to look sexy in that awful thing is above him - and tug dark blue jean up her lean legs. It’s only when he waves the device in front of her and raises his eyebrows that she finally admits she’s defeated and plops down on the couch next to him.

  
  


“Because of the cameras and the mics.”

  
  


He blinks, looks at the black box he’s holding, looks back at her, looks around him in a vain search for said cameras and mics. He doesn’t really understand. Surely, if there were any of those things in his small shack, he would have noticed them. Right? It doesn’t make sense. He knows he doesn’t spend much time here, but enough to know where his stuff is and to know if anything moved. Right? 

 

She wraps fingers around his knobbly knee and gently rubs it - she’s probably mistaken his incredulous look for one of worry, but he doesn’t really care because it feels rather nice, much nicer than imagining he’s being spied on.

  
  


“That bloke had your keys,” she starts to explain, and he has a feeling he won’t find the whole situation as nice a few minutes from now. “That means he got into your house, one way or the other. Call it job conditioning if you will, but when you’ve been a secret operative you tend to have some instincts. I mean, he got in here to get your keys, what else could he have done?”

“Hide cameras and mics?” he offers, though he’s still convinced there are no such devices around.

“I can only guess there are mics, but there  _ are  _ cameras. Started looking for one yesterday before we went to bed, just in case. Thank God I did. Found the first one right here, on your table, so I knew there had to be others. One in your kitchen, another in the bathroom and one more in the bedroom. I didn’t want to tell you because I while I trust you with my life, I have serious reservations about your ability to act and play pretend. I didn’t want them, well, probably  _ him _ , to know he’s found out so we’d keep that advantage, but… Well, we can forget about that now. He knows we know.”

“How would they? With you com thingy surely we’re safe? Unless James Bond isn’t what it used to be.”

“Camera scramblers are really hard to come by, they cost a shit-ton of cash and aren’t as efficient as movies would like you to think anyway. My scrambler works on mics only, which would have been enough if you hadn’t asked stupid questions. He can’t hear us, mics or not, but he can see us, we’re sitting in front of a cam. And he knows, because you’ve been staring at that uglyass flower for too long gaping like a bloody carp. And yes, the cam is in that flower, so you can wave and say  _ hi _ .”

“You have rather odd tastes when it comes to jokes, Rose. Is this supposed to be funny?”

  
  


He has to ask because despite his best efforts, he can’t believe it. Cameras all around, cameras he can’t see, and she’s taking that potentially horrifying fact much to lightly for it to be real. No one would intentionally leave spy cameras if they knew where they were hidden. Should he have known, they’d already be crushed to pieces and thrown into the bin. A logical conclusion, he thinks. Especially since… Oh. Fuck. The bedroom, she said. A camera in the bedroom, where no much more than an hour ago they… Broke the bed.

 

His eyes widen at the realization and his heart stutters in his chest when she goes to the flower and picks a small grey cube from between the withered leaves of one of the flowers that’s been drying up there for, what is it, two weeks? How could he not see that? 

 

She throws it at him with a smile that looks anything but appropriate, and his whole body jerks away from the cube that falls on his lap.

  
  


“Rose, the one in the bedroom, where, I mean, could it have recorded…” he stammers, unable to keep his eyes off the shiny lense staring back at him despite the worry and the disgust he feels knowing some sick-minded bloke could be watching. 

“It was on the frame, my side of the bed,” she tells him as she disappeared into the kitchen and comes back with the same cube, with the same smile he can’t understand. “Made it look like it fell off when I went searching for the others while you were snoring away like a freight train. The one in the kitchen was in that glass jar of coffee you keep by your toaster and the one in the bathroom was hidden between two towels on the shelf. Took care of it when I started the shower. So don’t worry too much, no one got to spy on your perfect arse or your Olympic performance.”

“Right, and I’m not supposed to worry about this?” he asks after she makes a quick trip around the small house and shoves the three tiny cameras in his hands.

“No, not at all. They were meant to be found. Maybe not that soon, but they were meant to. I mean, withered flowers, coffee jar, towels? Not exactly the best places to hide cams. Whoever did this… It’s just to scare you. So don’t worry, they have nothing they can use against you, or me. Those cams? They’re just here to say, _ I got in here, and I can do it again _ . But now you know, and we can be ready before they do it again.”

“Right, nothing worrying about that at all, then. How can you be so… Calm about this?”

“Because I’m used to this, I suppose,” she shrugs, gathering the cams from his open palms before she drops them into her bag. “When you work for an intelligence agency, you get to spy, but you also get to be spied on quite often. I don’t know how many vids of me there are out there, but trust me, there must be enough for a whole decade of movie nights. So, should we get going? We need to stop by the bank so I can withdraw some cash, and usually all the good prizes are gone by noon.”

“Wait, you still want to go to the funfair after that?”

  
  


She smiles, again, and this time he sees that it’s nothing short of coy. She straddles his knees, his hands find their way to the swell of her bum, and he welcomes her lips on his - and he rather enjoys that it’s becoming almost natural to kiss her that tender, easy way. Almost. Because he’s still surprised she wants him for something else than sex or money, for who he is and whatever little he can give her. Surprised she wants him. Oh, he can get used to this. 

 

She tangles her fingers through his hair, pulls his head backwards just so she can kiss that small dip between his jaw and his neck.

  
  


“I still want to spend some time with my boyfriend, yes,” she smiles against his skin, letting his uneven beard scratch her cheek.

“Boyfriend?” he raises his eyebrows - somehow that single word makes his insides tingle, but he can’t figure out if it’s a happy or a worried tingle. “I didn’t know we decided anything.”

“Implicit agreement, Hardy. Unless you insist on being a gentleman and properly ask me after you’ve bought me some cotton candy, I don’t see the point of pretending we’re not dating already.”

“Then I insist, lass. ‘M not exactly a gentleman, but you deserve better than just implicit agreement. You’ll have to be honest with me, though. You promised. Why do you still want to go to the funfair? We should be heading to the station and open the case right now. I’m no secret operative, but I’m not stupid either, Rose. It was manageable to delay the case with just the letter, but now we know what they can do, and we know I’m someone’s target. So?”

“Very perceptive, Detective,” she says, running the pad of her index over his lower lip. “I want to go to the funfair to spend time with my boyfriend.”

“And?”

“And I want to know if he, or they, whoever installed those cameras is a pro we should be scared of, or just a noob.”

“Noob?” he frowns - that’s not a word he knows, though he can only suppose it means the opposite of  _ pro _ .

“Right, forty-something year-old cop, sorry,” she chuckles, then fully laughs when he rolls his eyes and groans his embarrassment. “Let’s just say, a pro  _ or  _ someone with a limited knowledge and intelligence who just wants to play a game. I want to know if we’re going to be followed.”

“And if it’s a pro, how will you even know we’re being followed?”

“I’ll knowt. You trust me, right?”

“Aye. Fine, let’s go buy that cotton candy and shoot those balloons. I suppose you want me to act casual when there could be a killer on our tail?”

“If you being casual was a parameter in my plan, I’d abort everything right now. You could wear Speedo in a bumper-car and everyone would still think you’re a cop on some kind of mission. Come on, Alec, that’s your chance to kill two birds with one stone.”

“You’re the prettiest bird and I just want to catch you,” he says just before the words strike him as ridiculous and make him wince a little.

“Smooth,” she giggles, gently slapping his chest before she pushes herself up and reaches for her coat. “Any more where that came from?”

“That was the one and only. Come on, let’s go. We want to be there before they run out of Minions or whatever one-pound-worth stuffed monstrosity you expect me to spend half my savings on.”

“And here I thought you could be romantic.”

  
  


He rolls his eyes at her fake sigh of defeat and shrugs his light jacket over his back as she slings her bag over her shoulder and zips her coat up. 

 

Maybe they’re not quite  _ together _ , yet. But with the way she laces her fingers through his and leads him towards the door, the way she looks at him and squeezes his hand, it certainly feels like it. Oh yes. He’s definitely going to buy her some cotton candy. Try to forget about the cameras and the creep that might be watching them, too. But mostly buy her cotton candy.

 

* * *

 


	19. Abu

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t fully enjoy it. Not that he doesn’t want to, but he just can’t. Not yet anyway. Maybe, if it keeps happening, it’ll just become a habit and he won’t mind as much. But right now, he just can’t enjoy it the way he wants to. She probably feels it - his usually dry hand that’s grown a bit sweaty, the tension in his fingers, his reluctance to walk too close to her. He’s holding her hand, well, more like she’s holding his, and it feels odd. Odd, as in it’s both unnerving and comforting. These two words don’t go well together. Much like they don’t go well together.

 

He’s not blind - not even old enough to develop cataract yet, thank you very much - and he’s not stupid. He sees the looks. He knows what they think. All of these people, a massive crowd of smirks and frowns and grimaces. It makes him feel guilty, because those faces are aimed at the both of them, at the bizarre entity they make, and not just at him. He imagines what goes through their thick little heads full of brain but lacking the necessary neural connections to understand you just can’t do that - stare at people and share your contemptuous thoughts in such an obvious way. He imagines, he can almost read the words on their faces. He’s too old for her, she’s too young for him. He’s too common for her, she’s too beautiful for him. He wants her beauty, she wants his money.

 

It’s two faces of the same problem, really. They just don’t match. They stand out. They’re just one more sideshow among the dozens of rides and improvised clown performances. Jesus, he hates to be the center of attention.

 

Her fingers slip out of his, and he can’t tell if it bothers him or relieves him of a burden. He looks at her, the unspoken question in his eyes, and she answers with a smile that hides no hard feelings.

  
  


“‘S okay, Alec, I get it,” she chuckles, playfully shoving his shoulder with her own.

“Rose, I just…”

“I said I get it, don’t make that apologetic puppy face. Balloons first?”

“I…” he starts after a sigh, hiding his now free hand in his pocket. “Aye, let’s do that.”

“I think it’s over there,” she says as she points towards the end of the alley bordered with rides and stalls of all kinds. “And please, try to have fun and smile, yeah?”

“I’ll smile when I’ll win you that bloody Minion and see your tears of defeat,” he grins, hoping the tease will be enough to show her he is actually intent on having some fun - he would regret it for days if he made her feel like she had dragged him into something he didn’t want. “Ten quid each, the one with the most prizes win?”

“Done.”

  
  


He doesn’t miss the sudden assurance in her steps and how she throws him a challenging side look with her tongue peeking out between her lips. Oh, she’s quite hell-bent on winning. But he is, too. It makes him smile a bit wider, because it makes him realize he won’t have to pretend. He feels it, that she’s going to be really disappointed if he loses on purpose. This is going to be fun. The victory will be sweeter than all the candy floss they’ll get after he obliterates her every chance of triumph. 

 

Soon, they’re at the gallery they’ve been looking for, and the competitive atmosphere around the both of them goes up a notch or two. She frowns at him, defiant, and slams a ten pound bill on the counter.

  
  


“Ready to lose, boy?” she taunts with a half-smirk, taking the fake rifle she’s handed, already readying her aim.

“Don’t underestimate me,  _ girl _ ,” he retaliates, nonchalantly shoving his own bill in the hand of the gallery owner. “I don’t have the experience you have, but I have something you don’t.”

“And what would that be, Detective?”

“Skills, Chief Detective.”

“I would believe that if you weren’t holding your gun upside down,” she sighs to undermine his confidence - he won’t fall for such a lame tactic, of course, he knows he’s holding it perfectly. “Ready?”

“Aim,” he warns, pointing his rifle at the small balloons bumping into each other.

“Three balloons shot out of five for a prize,” the gallery owner informs them before he scurries away to the other end of the gallery - good, he’s understood he’s not dealing with mere beginners.

“Fire.”

  
  


There. First shot, first balloon popped. One quick look at her own set of balloons tells him she has missed her first shot, but he can’t let himself be reassured. After all, if she did go every Sunday to shoot balloons when she was in the military, she has quite the experience indeed. And maybe he just got lucky. 

 

He’s momentarily distracted by her beautiful face all scrunched up into a serious expression, can’t help throwing another glance at her balloons. His second shot is a miss. But hers is, too. He still has the advantage.

 

Oh, he’s really missed that. The excitement bubbling in his stomach, the desire to show he’s good, the urge to win and be the best. It’s always been part of him, that relentless need to prove he’s worth more than others. Of course, Rose will always be worth more than he is, winning or losing. She’ll always be better than he is. It doesn’t mean he’s willing to lose. No. He’s going to win. He’s going to win her that ridiculous plush Minion and he’s going to be bloody proud.

 

His third shot is missed. Dang. He can’t miss the last two. Fourth shot, done - he grins at the sounds his balloon makes when it pops, and grins even more at the lack of sound her balloon makes when it doesn’t pop. She’s missed them all, and he got two. The last one, and he’ll be the winner of the first round. He needs to win. He thinks he’s old-fashioned, but he won’t let go of the idea good boyfriends should win their girlfriends prizes, not the other way around. And to be fair, he abhors the thought of having to keep ugly childish plush toys around his house. Nope, he can’t let her win.

 

Last shot.  _ Ha _ .

  
  


“Impressed yet, Tyler?” he tells her with a satisfied rise of his eyebrows after he shoots the last balloon and the owner puts down the yellow toy he wanted in front of him. “You can thank me later.”

“That was the first round, Hardy,” she smiles, a conspicuous smile that doesn’t bode well. “First round, you learn how the gun works, how to aim, when to shoot. I don’t want the small prize. I want the big one. Four rounds left. Twenty balloons. I’m not going to miss one shot.”

“A big prize still counts as one, and I’m one step ahead.”

“Not for much longer. Round two, Hardy. Ready?”

“Aim”, he nods.

  
  


It’s just a bloody game but he feels like the stakes are much higher than they were a minute ago. Can she really shoot them all? Because if she can, he’s definitely going to lose - both the game and his pride in the process.  _ Come on, Hardy, you’ve done this before _ , he thinks to himself, lips tightly pinched in concentration, hands steady around his plastic weapon. Just as he’s about to shoot the first pellet, one of her balloons pops and makes his aim waver - and of course, he misses his first one. Then he misses the second. And the third. He can’t properly focus on what his doing with the succession of  _ pop _ ,  _ pop _ ,  _ pop  _ he hears along the quick series of clicks her finger makes when she pulls the trigger. Jesus, she’s fast. And she wasn’t lying. She’s actually getting them all.

  
  


“Jesus, you’re slow,” she grins at him as she waves two toys under his nose - wait, she’s already on round four, when did that happen, he’s just lost round two. “You should give up, Alec, you can’t win this.”

  
  


He stares at her, she’s popping all of those damned red balloons again, with a disconcerting ease and an incredible speed. Nope, he can’t win this. She’s a professional. A funfair shooting gallery professional player - among many other talents. The best he can do is pretend he knows what he’s doing, act confident, and hope luck will be enough to at least end the game on a tie. But he knows that’s impossible. She’s just too good.

  
  


“Fine, I give up,” he shrugs, putting his rifle down on the counter, stepping behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. “Let’s make this a bit more challenging, eh, lass?”

  
  


Holding her hand felt odd, but somehow hugging her from behind and trying to distract her with the kisses he peppers on her neck is fine. He should really sort himself out. There’s no logic to any of this. But he doesn’t care. He hums against her skin, smiles against her skin, brushes his lips against her skin, and while it’s much more ostentatious than simply holding her hand, he can’t be bothered to imagine what people are thinking. This is a moment they share, together, and he won’t let anyone intervene. They’re in their own bubble and he won’t let anyone pop it.

  
  


“If you get those five balloons,” he whispers into her ear, letting his thumb slip under the hem of her jumper to caress her stomach, letting his body wrap around hers completely. “I’ll invite you to the restaurant, like you wanted. If you lose, you owe me a favour.”

“‘M gonna need a good luck kiss, then,” she answers before she turns her head - and he indulges, twisting his neck so he can plant a soft kiss on her full, smiling lips. ‘I don’t like Indian much, by the way. Nor anything too posh. You know, no candlelights and silver cutlery. I like simple things.”

“You’re saying this like you know you’re gonna win,” he teases as his hands splay more fully over the hills and valleys of her ribcage he feels underneath her jumper. “Play first, plan second. Go on. Five shots.”

“Formalities,” she sighs, and he feels her ready her stance, sees her aiming at the bumping balloons.

  
  


He really thought he’d be able to distract her and make her lose on purpose, but it seems nothing, not even his teeth dragging on her jaw, can deter her from winning. He tries, and tries, murmurs praises in her ear that must sound like filthy promises, discreetly runs his thumb over the underswell of her breasts, pretends to shuffle on his feet only to press is body tighter against her own. But no matter how hard he tries, she still does it.  _ Pop _ ,  _ pop _ ,  _ pop _ ,  _ pop _ . 

  
  


“Abu!”

  
  


He jumps when he hears the high-pitched scream, quickly followed by an insistent pull on his jeans. Rose gapes at him, having missed her last shot because of him, and he sees in her eyes she is definitely not pleased. But it’s not his fault. He looks down at the little boy still tugging on his jeans, a big smile splattered over his round face. He can only smile back, gently grabs him to pull him up in his arms, unaware that Rose is now glaring at him with her fists firmly planted  on her hips.

  
  


“And where’s your mommy, cheeky lad?” he asks, shaking his head when pouty fingers start to play with his hair. “You didn’t run off, did you?”

“Oh, yes, the little devil did,” he hears above his shoulder - a voice it only takes a second to register as Miller’s. “I’m sorry, Hardy, I tried to stop him but you know how he’s like when you’re around. And, uh, sorry if we interrupted anything. Ma’am.”

  
  


Ah, yes, Rose, still here, next to him. Of course, he didn’t forget. Rose. And Miller. Both at the same time. Fuck. Miller knows they’ve shagged once, but she probably didn’t expect… Well, this, a romantic date at a funfair. Could she have seen the kiss, or the way he was with Rose, oh obviously she has otherwise she wouldn’t have apologized for having  _ interrupted _ . He groans internally and winces very much externally when Rose slips an arm around his waist and extends her other hand towards Miller.

  
  


“Please, call me Rose, or Tyler, I don’t really like this  _ Ma’am _ thing,” she smiles - and he’s rather surprised that Miller shakes her hand with the same kind of smile, warm and friendly. “Nice to finally meet you, Miller, I’m sorry we didn’t get talk more the other day.”

“You probably had better things to do,” she grins - and he doesn’t miss the slight wiggle of her eyebrows as she glances at him, and he doesn’t really like that it makes Rose giggle. If these two get along too well, he’s doomed. “Didn’t know the police hired magicians, you’ll have to teach me a spell or two.”

“Oi, I’m right here,” he huffs, falsely outraged, but only falsely because he’s relieved Miller doesn’t seem to be keen on commenting on what she witnessed. “Nevermind, you two ladies chat away, I’m gonna get some sweets for my friend.”

“He’s just been on the merry-go-round, don’t stuff him or he’s going to vomit,” Miller warns as he searches his pocket for a few coins, the little boy still tucked in his arms.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take so I don’t have to listen to your chin-wagging. I won’t be long, lass. See you both later.”

  
  


He wishes he brought his bloody brains along when, out of perfectly natural reflex, he bends to kiss Rose - nothing flamboyant, just a chaste kiss, but a kiss enough to make Miller try to hide her laugh, enough to make Rose kiss him back, enough to make his cheeks heat up and his features contort into a grimace when he realizes he’s just made a show of himself.

  
  


“Abu’s got a girlfriend!” the little boy pipes up, clapping his hands with the kind of excitement only a four years old can have for such things.

“Abu?” Rose enquires, the amused smirk hanging at the corner of her mouth doing little to tame his blush - how much he wishes she hadn’t heard that stupid nickname.

“Oh, have you ever watched  _ Aladdin _ ? Remember the monkey?” Miller starts to explain with exactly the same kind of smile.

“Jesus, I’m out,” he growls, putting Fred down before he takes his hand and starts to walk away. “Have fun. Don’t make my ears burn too much.”

“They’re already burning, by the looks of it.”

  
  


Rather than answering the provocation, he doesn’t look back and keeps walking despite the girlish giggles he hears behind him. They are getting along. He’s  _ so  _ doomed. 

 

Well. To be fair, he’s rather pleased they’re getting along. After all, Miller is his friend, and it’s probably better this way. And at least, he can trust Miller not to shout from the rooftops that he’s involved in a not-quite-professional relationship with his boss. She even seemed happy for him, and that’s something he didn’t expect. After everything that happened with her ex-husband, she’s had a tendency to be bitter about relationships and love and everything of the kind. Which he understands - she, more than anyone else, has the right to be bitter. Maybe he has that right, too. The bitch called Tess, that has to be a good reason to be bitter. But now he’s found Rose. The woman who’s reconciling him to those feelings he thought he’d never feel again. It’s not all sweet just yet, but it makes it more bearable to live with the betrayal and the pain. Miller should find someone like Rose. Someone who can fix the unfixable. She sure as Hell deserves it - though he will never dare say such a thing to her.

  
  


“Abu, can you get me a fish?” Fred asks, pulling on his hand to drag him towards a stall where several fish tanks full of goldfish are lined. “Mister Jingles’s gone to Heaven, an’ I want another friend.”

“You’ll have to ask your Mum about that, Freddie,” he shrugs as he redirects their steps towards the sweets stall - he doesn’t know if he feels sad for the cat and the boy, or worried by the sight of the goldfish. “I’m sorry Mister Jingles had to go to Heaven, lad. But you know, he must be really happy there.”

“No he’s not,” he shakes his head, a sad shrug shaking his small shoulders. “The bad man made him cry. Tom said if you die crying, you cry in Heaven forever, so it’s best to die smiling.”

  
  


He frowns, startled by those innocent words coming out of that innocent mouth, and crouches down so he can look into his bright blue eyes. He puts a comforting hand on his shoulder and keeps his little pouty fingers into a gentle hold.

  
  


“What do you mean, the bad man made him cry?” he asks, doing his best to keep the fear and anxiety away from his voice - that’s something he’s proud of and thankful for, the ease with which he can speak to kids. “Did you see a bad man yesterday?”

“If I tell you, I’ll go to prison?” Fred says, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, tears starting to roll down his cheeks.

“Of course not, buddy. You’re a good lad, eh, I don’t put good lads like you in prison. I just want you to tell me if you saw a bad man hurting Mister Jingles, aye?”

“You’re a bad man, Abu?”

“No, I’m a good man, lad. I’m not perfect, but I’m a good man.”

“So... Why did you hurt Mister Jingles, Abu? You didn’t like him?”

  
  


His heart free-falls in his chest when he understands what the little boy is implying. He remembers the CCTV video, and the man that looked disturbingly like him. The man who borrowed his car, went to the farm, stole the chicken. The man who could turn him into the main suspect of the case they’re going to open tomorrow. 

 

He gulps down his fear and hangs on to the last thread of his composure, wiping the tears from the boy’s face with the pad of his thumbs.

  
  


“I loved Mister Jingles, Freddie, you know that,” he says softly, slipping his index under his chin to catch his shy eyes. “I promise, I didn’t hurt him. Did the bad man look like me?”

  
  


Fred only nods.

  
  


“It wasn’t me, lad, aye? When did you see the bad man?” he asks -  _ please _ , let him answer something he can use as evidence to prove he couldn’t have killed the bloody cat.

“I don’t know,” he answers, rolling up the sleeve of his jumper to show him a small watch shaped like a mini-Spiderman. “Mommy gave me this, but I can’t read it. The big one was here, and the small one here.”

“Okay,” he manages to say through the tight ball of anxiety growing in his throat - twenty past six; not good, not good at all. “And what did you see?”

“The bad man in the garden. He played baseball with Mister Jingles. But then he kicked Mister Jingles like a ball and hit his head with the baseball stick. Did you hurt Mister Jingles, Abu?”

“I didn’t lad, I pinky-swear, look,” he tries to give a convincing smile, wrapping his little finger around his even more little one. “You know, your Mommy and me, we catch the bad men. I promise I’ll find the bad man and put him in prison. Would that make you feel better?”

“Can you bring back Mister Jingles?”

“Ah, you see, he’s in cat Heaven now, and it’s really, really far away. Even with my long legs, I can’t go there.”

“What if you take a plane? Can you go?”

“No, lad, I’m sorry. Plus, I’m not a cat, they wouldn’t let me in, would they? And even if they would, I’m too big to fit through the door. Can you imagine, me, crawling through the cat flap on your door?”

“You’re too big,” the little boy giggles, patting his thick fringe of hair falling on his forehead. “Do you think Mister Jingles is happy in cat Heaven?”

“Oh yes, he’s super happy. They’ve all got toys and food, they have lots of friends to play with, they can even watch Bob the Builder together.”

“So he’s not going to miss the cartoons in the morning?”

“Of course he isn’t, it wouldn’t be Heaven otherwise,” he grins, pushing himself back up before he lifts the boy from the ground and sits him across his shoulders. “Can you see Mommy from up there?”

“I see sweets and fish!” Fred exclaims, kicking his heels on his chest and trying to steer him in the direction of the stall covered in tons of sugar with pulls on his hair - obviously, he’s forgotten about his cat already, and he envies this talent kids have to switch moods that quickly.

“Fine, we’ll get the sweets first, then a fish, aye?” he sighs - Miller is going to kill him, but he’s never been a tosser to kids and he just can’t imagine  _ not  _ getting him the fish.

“Can I have two fish, Abu?”

  
  


He only rolls his eyes and shakes his head, locking the small legs in the crook of his elbows before he joins the queue to buy a few sweets.

 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re back at the shooting gallery, hands full of sweets and fish and candy floss - he’s even found a small plastic truck that looks like the one in Bob the Builder, Fred’s favourite cartoon.

 

Obviously, Miller is not pleased.

  
  


“I thought you were going to get sweets!” she whines, gaping at the small mountain of stuff they’ve gathered.

“Here you go, lad, careful,” he says to the boy as he puts him down on the ground. “Don’t shake your fish, eh? What have you women been talking about?”

“This and that. Why?” Rose asks, a small smile stirring her lips when he hands her some candy floss.

“Because we need to talk. Tomorrow. It’s… Urgent. Miller, you’ll have to bring Fred with you. I know, he’s four and half and you’re his Mum and you won’t like it, but we’re gonna need his statement. He saw how your cat died.”

“We kinda were talking about tomorrow,” Miller shrugs, ruffling her son’s hair as if she’s scared her fingers are going to start acting up if she doesn’t keep them busy. “You were gone half an hour, we had time to discuss… You know.”

“I want Ellie on the case, Alec,” Rose says - and he welcomes her arm around his waist when he steps next to her. “We’re gonna need the best people on that case, and I want you and Ellie. You’re…  _ We’re  _ implicated and technically we’re playing with the boundaries of the law, but we have no choice. I refuse to see any other agent handle this investigation. We’re onto something really big here, my friends.”

“Miller, are you sure about that?” he asks with a frown, concerned that she’s not fully realizing the implications of such a plan. “You’ve got your sons, you could lose your job, maybe worse.”

“Rose promised she’ll clear me if something goes wrong. I want to help, Hardy. Now if you don’t have any better argument, I think I’m gonna go. Thanks a lot for the fish, by the way, can I borrow your hollow head to make a fish bowl?”

“He bloody thinks I killed his cat, Miller, he asks for fish, I buy him fish, alright?”

“What, you killed my cat?”

“No, I didn’t but…” he starts, then stops, too frustrated and tired to develop. “Let’s just talk about this tomorrow, aye?”

“Sure. Thank you, for Fred. No wonder he likes you so much,  _ Abu _ . I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Enjoy what’s left of the day.”

“Aye.”

“You too, Ellie.”

“Bye Abu, bye girlfriend!” 

  
  


He waves at the little boy with a smile until he and Miller disappear among the crowd of people, then drops his arm with a heavy sigh and leans against the counter. So much for having fun at the funfair.

 

Rose gently cups his face and presses a quick but tender kiss on his lips. He wraps his arms in the small of her back and hugs her closer, burying his nose in her hair that still faintly smells of his own shampoo. It’s comforting. 

  
  


“You okay, Alec?” she asks softly - she should know he’s not, and he thinks she only needs the reassurance.

“I’ll feel better when we find him,” he answers, following the movement of her body when she backs away. “Do you still want to play?”

“No, thanks,” she chuckles without humour before she picks up the plush toys they’ve gathered and hides them in her pockets.

“Then you owe me a favour. You lost. You didn’t shoot the fifth.”

“What kind of favour, then?”

“I didn’t get to ask yet…”

  
  


Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, he still finds enough heart to pluck a piece of candy floss and offer it from his fingertips. She smiles, he smiles back, and she sucks his fingers into her mouth. It’s just playful, light-hearted, but he realizes it’s this kind of small things that can give him the courage and the necessary motivation to keep going. She’s going to be the lifeline he’s desperately going to need once they embark on that Hellish investigation. He’s not scared to say it any longer. He needs her.

  
  


“Would you please be my girlfriend, Rose?” he asks - and while the word doesn’t sound quite right,  _ girlfriend _ , he knows if she says yes, it won’t matter because the feelings will be the same.

“Don’t say  _ please _ , Alec,” she whispers when she’s close enough to his face, her hand journeying from his chest to the side of his neck.

“I… Be with me. Just… Be with me, Rose.”

“I’m with you, Alec.”

  
  


Oh yes, she is. With him. He’s not bursting with joy or grinning like a lunatic, he’s not overwhelmed or floating on a cloud of happiness. Sod the metaphors. He’s just relieved, because now he knows he’s not alone. She’s with him. And that’s enough.

 

He kisses her, softly, tasting the strawberry-flavoured sugar coating her lips, closes his eyes and enjoys the way she hugs him, plays with his hair, answers his kiss. Why would he need more? This is perfect.

  
  


“If you’re not playing, can you please leave?” the gallery owner interrupts, putting down a rifle on the counter with a flourish, obviously annoyed that they’re occupying two booths without paying. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes with a sheepish shrug. “We’re leaving. Come on, Alec, let’s go back to the car.”

  
  


She laces her fingers through his, and it’s not odd anymore. It’s… An unexpected feeling of normality that he feels. Normal people, normal couple, normal gesture. He walks close to her, even allows his body to bump into hers from time to time, keeps plucking at the candy floss to push it into her mouth. And he notices everything he imagined earlier was just that. His imagination. No one gives a fuck about them, and he sees that now. They’re not the odd ones out. They’re… Just bloody normal. He likes that. To be normal. So normal he’s not given a nickname or a stupid title, so normal he’s just a ghostly presence in the crowd, an invisible man among hundreds of others. He’s no one to them. He’s just Alec to Rose. That’s all that matters.

  
  


“You’ll need to let go of my hand,” she says with a smirk, drawing him out of his reverie - are they at his car, already? “Keys?”

“Aye, here,” he answers, rummaging through his pocket before he finds it and hands it to her. “By the way, have we been followed? That’s what you wanted to know, coming here, right?”

“We’re about to find out.”

  
  


He doesn't really get it at first, because she only opens the boot, then her bag. 

  
  


“I wrote a note before we left, and I put it in my bag with the cameras,” she explains just as he opens his mouth to ask for more details. “It said  _ Sorry we found you _ .”

“Aye, so?”

“So… He’s good.”

  
  


He grinds his teeth together when she takes out a yellow post-it from her bag, and the strawberry of the candy floss turns into the most disgusting thing he’s ever had the misfortune to taste.

 

He reads the note twice, just to be sure, but it’s definitely not  _ Sorry we found you _ that’s written down on that post-it. No. Not at all.

 

_ No worries. Thanks for giving the cams back. See you soon. :) _

 

* * *

 


	20. Boxes

* * *

 

 

“Aren’t we going back to your place?” he asks when he notices she’s heading to the town center, away from the hill where her house is planted.

“You said you’d help me put my bed together, right?” she answers with a smile, giving his thigh a tender rub. “And you said my mattress is good for your back. I was just thinking, you could pack a bag and spend the night with me.”

“Two nights in a row? I thought you wanted us… Not to advertise it too much. Miller won’t say anything, but the others might snitch you to your bosses.You could lose your job.”

“I can deal with the others. Plus, let me remind you, tomorrow we’ll both be outlaws, we’re going to risk a lot more than just losing our job. I just…  Want to spend time with you, Alec. Before everything goes to shit.”

“Aye, you’re right. Let’s try to enjoy the rest of the day, eh, lass?”

  
  


He really wants to. Spend the rest of the day in her company, make the most of the time left, share those few hours with his…  _ Girlfriend _ . No, he definitely doesn’t like that word - girlfriends are for teenage boys who think they know what it’s like to commit to a relationship, not for grown men who really know. Girlfriend sounds too shallow, too childish, too naive. Almost objectifying. Rose isn’t a girlfriend. She’s a strong independent woman who, he still doesn’t know why, accepted to be with him. Together, as one. She’s… A partner. Partner is a rather good word - much better than girlfriend anyway. At least, it implies some kind of dynamic between two persons, a balance, a mutual agreement. She can’t be his partner if he’s not hers as well. It fits. He’s going to keep that one.

  
  


“Stop it, Alec, you’re distracting me,” she giggles after he bends on the side to kiss her neck, pushing his face away with the palm of her hand.

“No, I’m not,” he grins, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. “If I wanted to distract you, I wouldn’t just kiss you, lass.”

“You, Sir, are insatiable,” she laughs as she slaps his hand away from her thigh.

“I’ve been alone a long time,” he sighs with a sad shrug - though his undying smile does little to convince her.

“Well, you’re not anymore, are you?”

“No. No, I’m not. Thank you. For reminding me.”

  
  


He doesn’t care if it distracts her, he just bends towards her, again, and kisses her neck, again, his long fingers loosely wrapped around her leg. He likes that she’s not the kind of women he sees on magazines, with so little flesh it looks as if sharp bones are rolled-up in paper-thin skin. He likes the substance, the weight, the solidity under his fingertips. He likes to feel the muscles roll and tighten under his palm, and he likes the softer flesh of the inside of her thighs. He can touch, he can squeeze, he can caress, he can grab, all of that without ever fearing he’ll end up breaking her like a porcelain doll. She’s perfect. Not just her body and her face. She, all of her, is perfect.

 

The closer they get to his place, the more her nose scrunches, the more annoyed breaths come out of her nose. She must have a much better sense of smell, because it’s only a minute later he finally breathes in the pungent and disagreeable fragrance of burning.

  
  


“I know the weather’s nice, but a barbecue in April, seriously?” he groans, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow.

“Alec…” she starts, almost shyly, a frown knitting her eyebrows tightly together. “I don’t think it’s a barbecue. Look.”

  
  


His eyes don’t have to search for long. Barely a mile away, in the general direction of his river shack, a thin column of black smoke is rising and diluting into the bright light of the sun. Black smoke. It’s definitely not barbecue. 

 

He hurries to press the button on the dashboard to start the loud siren of the police car and gives her the sharp order to drive faster. He has a bad feeling. The small voice in his head keeps repeating,  _ it’s my house, it’s my house, I know it’s my house _ . Bile rises in his throat and his heart hammers against his ribcage, his stomach churns and his lungs fight to fill up with an air that’s tainted with the disgusting smell. He anxiously drums his fingers on his legs, almost lash out at her for not driving fast enough to his liking. He’s nervous, and angry, and frustrated, and it’s the kind of poisonous combination that never fails to play tricks on his short temper. The firecrackers inside, they’re starting to light up, he’s going to explode, he’s going to burst into a fit, he’s going to shout and yell and blame. 

  
  


“Would you fucking hurry?” he barks between his clenched teeth, and fuck, he hates to sound so furious.

  
  


Soon, the siren of the firefighters joins their own, and he doesn’t need to look into the mirror to see the flashing lights of the truck reflecting on it. One truck, then a second, the screeching cacophony making his ears whistle painfully, the shouts of those people on the pavement rushing towards the source of the commotion, and the smell, that horrible smell that grows so unbearable his eyes start to water and his throat tightens.

 

It feels like too long a time before she finally parks along the pavement surrounding the small parking lot at the end of the walkway that leads to his house. So much smoke, so hot, so many people.  _ It’s my house, it’s my bloody house. _

 

He kicks the door of the car open, doesn’t listen to her, doesn’t even know what she’s saying, just runs towards the small shack and pulls the collar of his tee-shirt over his nose so he won’t suffocate. He doesn’t fucking care about the house, that’s never really felt like his anyway, but what he does care about is what’s inside.

  
  


“Alec, you can’t go in!” she yells behind him, just as he rolls his hand into his sleeve and smashes the window of his door so he can reach for the inside lock. “Alec, please, don’t be stupid, don’t go in!”

“Try and stop me,” he growls, giving the door a hard kick when the half-melted metal hinders its proper opening. 

  
  


He’s instantly swallowed by a stifling heat and an atrocious cloud of smoke and dust and dirt, blinded by the fire roaring all around, the curtains, the tablecloth, the chair covers, the couch. It’s spreading fast, there’s no access to the kitchen any longer, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t need to go in the kitchen. The bedroom. Everything he needs is in the bedroom.

 

He wants to rush, but he can’t. He has to be careful where he puts his feet, make sure the roof is still holding, dodge the flames licking at the walls, which isn’t made easy by his stinging and watery eyes and the lightheadedness caused by the inhalation of smoke despite the protection of his tee-shirt. 

 

He coughs, sneezes, struggles to breathe in properly, but he manages to reach the bedroom without too much trouble - he’s thankful the fire hasn’t spread there yet, though the air is just as unbreathable. He falls on his knees next to the bed and reaches under it, his fingers groping their way on the carpet until they meet a cardboard box, then a second, then a third. There are six in total, but they’re so heavy he’ll have to make the journey twice. 

 

His breath turns into a wheeze as he piles up the boxes and precariously balances them against his chest. His tee-shirt slips down his chin, he gulps down an air heavy with particles and coughs some more. But he wants to keep those boxes safe. 

  
  


“Alec, for fuck’s sake!” he hears her shout before he can see her body shaped through the smoke. “What do you need? Tell me what you need so I can help you!”

“Go out, Rose, it’s not safe,” he growls, walking straight into her so she has to back away towards the door. “Take these to the car. Don’t stay here.”

“What more do you need? Just tell me for Heaven’s sake!”

“I need you to go out!” he orders, a furious growl that goes with the way he shoves her away and through the door. “Stay out, this fucking house is falling apart! Stay the fuck out!”

  
  


He thinks he sees a firefighter grab her by the shoulder and pull her away, but he doesn’t have the time to be relieved. Not when the roof starts to creak, menacingly so, and the fire rumbles with more strength and more energy. It’s growing hotter, and hotter, heavy beads of dirty sweat are rolling down his forehead and his temples, dirty dew pearling above his upper lip and coating his tongue with an acid taste when he licks it away. 

 

He hurries towards the bedroom again, ignores the firefighter calling after him, gathers the three remaining boxes.

  
  


“Sir, I need you out, now,” a tall man sternly orders when he puts down the boxes by the threshold of the front door.

“I… I need one more thing,” he struggles to says, chest heaving and eyes squinting  as if it could help see better through the smoke and the blinding light. “Give me a minute.”

  
  


He won’t leave without that last box. No, he can’t. The bedroom, it’s just over here. The box is just over there.

  
  


“Jesus fuck!” he shouts between painful coughs, barely quick enough to dodge the sudden cave-in of the ceiling just as he steps through the door - and it creaks, and groans, and the fire crepitates all around him and the flames roar to life among the rubble pile of wood and plaster. 

 

He’s lost his way out. He’s trapped in the bedroom. Suddenly struck by a small-scale panic attack, each one of his senses sending alert signals to his brain, he dives under the bed to fetch the precious shoe-box. He holds it protectively against his chest, tries to cover it with his jacket, his eyes floating without any real purpose around the dark room but to find a way to escape. The window. That’s the only way left. 

 

His thoughts are getting fuzzy, he can’t see that well, he can’t breathe properly, can’t walk properly. His legs hit the side of the bed, he trips over his own feet, coughs, spits, blinks to chase the tears. The window, it’s not far, just a few steps away, he just needs to…

 

A yelp of pain burst out of his mouth when part of the ceiling collapses and a large chunk of plaster falls, hard, on his left shoulder and makes him fall on his knees.  _ Shit, shit, shi _ t, he has to get up, open that bloody window, get away.

 

But he can’t. He can’t get up. He tries, and tries, but the fire is burning away his energy and he can’t find the strength to push himself up. He can’t do anything. Is he going to die? Maybe he’s going to die. He has always wanted to get a quick and painless death. His prayers obviously haven’t been heard. His lungs, burning, his brain, pulsing, his shoulder, throbbing, his whole body, quivering. Everything hurts. For how long is he going to have to lay there, how long is it going to take for the fire to consume him and turn him into a small pile of ashes? If only he could faint, that would make things easier. Quieter. Just a bit better.

 

How long has it been already? A few minutes? Mere seconds? An hour? It’s hard to tell, because everything is the same. The same pain. The same sound. The same smell. The same darkness. The same thoughts, void of meaning, hazy, blurred.

 

He rolls onto his back, keeps his shoe-box secure against his chest. Wait. No. No, no, no, The box is gone. His fingers twitch around his jumper. His box. It’s not here. His box.

  
  


“My box,” he rasps - and he tries to get up again, but an invisible hand is keeping him down, pushing down hard on his shoulder.

“We’ve got your box, Sir,” a soft, distant voice says - maybe the hand is real, then?  Or is it the voice that’s unreal? “Sir, can you hear me? We’ve got your box. Breathe, alright, breathe. Do you think you can walk?”

“My box,” he repeats - oh, and his thoughts are getting clearer, and he feels something around his nose and mouth, and the air isn’t as hot and thick with smoke.

“We have it, Sir. Can you walk?”

“Aye, just… Just help me up.”

  
  


His whole body is suddenly standing upright, the change of heights and perspective making his stomach flip and a wave of nausea course through him. His only solace is the fresh oxygen pumped into the mask that feeds his lungs and his brain and dissipates the mist clouding his thoughts. He can walk, a little, but he still has to lean heavily on the firefighter who guides his steps among the rubble and the patches of carpet on fire. 

 

He thought he didn’t care about his house. The tears that fall from his eyes as he takes in the disaster proves otherwise. He liked this house. It was small and dull and lonely, but it was his. He hasn’t owned much since his divorce, and being able to rent this shack had been a small achievement. It hurts to see it go up in literal smoke.

  
  


“God, Alec, are you okay?”

  
  


She throws herself against his chest and draws him into a tight hug - it’s only when he groans in pain that she lets go and carefully holds his face between her cold hands.

  
  


“The ambulance is parked over there,” the firefighter tells her, pointing at the end of the alley. “He’ll be fine, just have him checked up. We’ll call you when it’s safe to go and search for anything to salvage. Might take a while, though, the walkway’s gonna need some fixing before it’s safe again.”

“Thank you. It’s probably an arson, by the way. Let us know what you find.”

“Will do, Ma’am.”

  
  


He pulls the mask off his face, glad to finally breathe in some fresh, natural air, glad to feel the light breeze seep through his clothes and chase the heat of the fire away. He doesn’t wait for her, just starts walking along the walkway, unable to look back and watch the fire burn down his house and only possessions. He should be worried, devastated, furious, but he’s none of that. No, the only thing he feels is a pinch of disappointment when he realizes he’ll probably have to buy new clothes. Fuck, he hates shopping.

  
  


“Alec, you’re hurt,” she gasps in worry, joining him to clutch his hand between her fingers and stop him in his steps.

“Am I?’ he raises his eyebrows, trying to look at what she’s looking at - somewhere above his shoulder, but he can’t see it. “Maybe. Doesn’t hurt. I’m fine. You driving?”

“We need to see a medic, Alec, we’re not going until we’ve seen someone.”

“Fine, ‘kay. I’ll wait for you in the car, you can see the medic.”

“No,  _ you  _ need to see the medic,” she corrects him, gently pulling on his hand to redirect his steps towards the ambulance.

“Please, lass,” he sighs, too tired to properly protest. “I’m fine, I promise. Can we just go?”

“I… Fine, wait for me in the car,” she gives up before she hands him the keys. “I’ll just be a minute, alright?”

“Aye, sure.”

  
  


He plops down on the car seat, a weary curse tumbling down his lips because the careless movement makes his shoulder hurt - no, no, he’s fine. He’s fine, just for a minute or two, because the more he breathes, the more he comes to his senses, the more he feels his stomach twist and heave. He swallows, and swallows, his mouth filling up with water each time his stomach contracts, and that’s a feeling he’s familiar with. He can’t hold it. He hurries out of the car and finds an anchor on the hood, breathing in, breathing out, fast, but it doesn’t help. His whole body bends forward under another powerful churn, and he winces, coughs, grimaces. He hates that splashing sound, he hates the taste even more, and it only makes it worse. 

 

He feels her hand on the small of his back, her other hand, cold and comforting on his forehead. She’s back already.  _ Fuck _ , he didn’t want her to see him like that. All weak and exhausted and puking bile over his shoes. Not exactly how he expected the day to play out. 

  
  


“It’s okay, Alec,” she soothes softly, rubbing tight circles over his back.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes between two harsh fits of dry-heaving. “I’m fine. Just the smoke, it made me a bit sick.”

“We’re gonna stop by the pharmacy, alright? The medic gave me a prescription. Is more coming?”

“No, no, I’m… I’m good. Let’s go, please.”

  
  


He sits back down in the car, more careful this time, and his head falls back against the headrest, eyes closed, mouth and throat working to chase the acrid taste hanging to his tongue. He hears her close her door, and then… Nothing. Silence. No screeching sirens, no deafening heartbeat, no roaring fire. It’s quiet. Muffled. Calm. Did it really happen? The fire? His house in ruins? Everything he owned, burnt? All his life, gone?

 

His shoulder hurts. He can still smell the smoke, the burning wood, the melting plastic, the smoldering metal. He can still see the black stains on his hands, taste the dust and the coal in his mouth, feel the weight in his lungs. It happened.

 

She puts a hand over his knee, lifts a strand of his dirty hair away from his forehead, gently caresses the underside of his eyes with a moist thumb. It happened. Gone. It’s all gone.

  
  


“I’m okay,” he repeats for what seems to be the hundred time. “Rose, I’m… I’m ok… Okay…”

  
  


The more he tries to tell her he’s fine, the less confident he feels. He tries, but he doesn't succeed. The words never come out the way he wants them to. It’s too quiet at first, not exactly convincing. Her name, he says it a bit louder, but it sounds too rough. He tries again, but his voice breaks in between words. It wavers, breaks again, turns to a whisper, to a breath. And then it’s just a meaningless sob. He’s not okay.

 

“I’m okay,” he cries into the crook of her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her, tight, fingers clutching her jumper. “I’m okay.”

“No, I don’t think you are. Just let it out, Alec,” she says softly, nestling his head more comfortably against her shoulder - he’s just scared she’s going to be mad he’s soaking her jumper, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m so sorry, Alec. Just let it all out, you’ll feel better, yeah? Don’t hold it. I’m here, Alec. I’m here for you.”

  
  


Can’t she see he’s already crying, can’t she see that’s the only way he knows to let it all out? Jesus, he wants to be angry again, tell her to sod off and come back when he’ll have no more tears to give. But then, she hugs him tighter, and she keeps talking to him, comforting him, so much so that he finds himself sobbing uncontrollably against her neck. His shy tears turn to heavy pearls seeping through his tightly closed eyelids, his quiet cries turn to loud whines and wails crawling their way up his throat. Rough sounds he’s never heard from his own mouth before, sounds he decides he never wants to hear again.

 

It lasts, and lasts, longer than he’s ever cried before, waves after waves of pain and sorrow and despair crashing over him, unrelenting. Until his whole body slouches against hers, until he forgets why he’s crying, until his sobs die and his tears stop. He’s exhausted. Mentally and physically exhausted. No matter how much he wants to keep crying and cursing this bloody world for everything it’s putting him through, he can’t. 

 

So he does what he does best. Pretends he’s okay, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, clears his throat and wills his face back to its natural somber expression.

  
  


“Can we go, now?” he simply asks, voice so low, with so little conviction he’s not sure she’s heard.

“Of course we can,” she smiles - and though the smile lacks its usual joy, it’s still comforting, especially when she presses her lips on her forehead, then on the tip of his nose. “Fasten your seatbelt?”

“I was hoping you’d brake and send me flying through the windshield,” he says, a poor attempt at a joke he himself doesn’t even find funny.

“Maybe later.”

  
  
  


They leave the general hubbub of the incident -  _ crime _ \- behind, and just a few minutes later, they’re parked next to the pharmacy so she can get her things. She gets back with a rather large bag, which he finds surprising. Surely, his prescription mustn't have so many meds on it, he just has a scratch on his shoulder and a bit of smoke in his lungs - maybe he’s going to suffer from depression a bit in the coming days, but that’s about it. He peeks into the bag and takes out a couple of boxes.

  
  


“Unless you’re scared of getting pregnant, these aren’t for you”, she chuckles when she sees what he’s holding. “I just got you an expectorant, antiseptic spray and a bit of gauze.”

“And condoms,” he points out - he would have smiled, he wants to smile, but his face is still too tense and tired for that. “I should be the one buying these, you know.”

“Don’t be so practical, Alec, they’re for us, not just for you.”

“I’ll need a box when I find somewhere else to live. I don’t think hotels provide them free of charge.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alec,” she says with some kind of exasperated roll of her eyes. “You’re staying at my place, daft man, I’m not gonna let you live in a seedy hotel. And this isn’t a debate, so don’t look at me like that.”

“I was just going to say... “ he starts, caressing the back of her hand with his fingertips, following the shape of her bones and veins shaped under the thin skin. “If you don’t mind… I’d like that. To stay with you. Thank you for offering. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, very long time, lass.”

“And you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, Alec. Thank you, for accepting.”

  
  


They remain silent for the rest of the short ride to her house, and not so long after he’s standing in her shower, warm water raining down on him. He’s glad she hasn’t made it too hot, and he’s happy to let her wash him. The smell of perfume and strawberry shower gel is a bit disconcerting at first, but he can’t complain. It’s better than smoke and dust. She starts with his back, running her hands and her soft sponge all over his skin, massaging the knots tying his muscles when she finds one under her fingers. It feels good. Really good. So good he doesn’t even mind he’s the only naked - she thought it best to stay away from all the soot and dirt covering his body. He doesn’t even mind when she crouches to rub her spong over his calves and feet and probably gets a view of his backside he’s never even seen before. 

  
  


“Turn around?” she says - it’s something of a question, as if she’s giving him a choice.

  
  


He doesn’t mind. So, he turns around, answers her small smile with a small smile of his own. He likes to watch her. How careful she is, how tender, how attentionate. Maybe his whole life is a disaster, but she’s a stardust of hope in his dark universe. Is she his reward or his consolation gift for his otherwise pitiful life? She might be. Because he watches her, running her hands over his chest, his arms, his abdomen, his legs. He watches and he feels it, the way she touches him. He feels taken care of. And, once in while, that’s a good feeling.

  
  


“Close your eyes, darling,” she says as she brings her soft hands to his face.

“Darling?” he repeats, surprised to hear that word after so long.

“Darling, sweetheart, handsome, babe,” she enumerates with a grin, pouring a large blob of peach-scented shampoo in the crook of her palm. “Whichever you like best.”

“Darling is fine, I suppose,” he shrugs - then hurries to close his eyes when she starts to massage his head. “I just… Haven’t been anyone’s darling in a long time.”

“Well, you’re mine now, Alec. Do you think you can handle yourself?”

“‘M not crippled, Rose.”

“Fine, then keep washing, I’ll get you some of my clothes and a clean towel.”

“You’re not planning on giving me lace lingerie and a dress, right?” he grins, cracking one eye open to see her rummage through a cupboard - and yes, he grins, because what the Hell, he’s her darling in the middle of this whole mess, and it’s the only thing that can put a smile on his lips. 

“I might do that,” she chuckles, putting two towels on the rack. “I’ll just be a minute, yeah?”

  
  


He keeps washing his hair while she’s gone, makes sure to get rid of every little flake of soot, replace every single sniff of smoke with the sweet fragrance of peach, scrub to the last patch of skin, scratch his nails hard against his scalp to clean them. All of the grime is drained along the lathered water, and he feels just a bit better. If it weren’t for the dull pain radiating from his shoulder, he might have pretended it had all just been a horrible nightmare. It  _ is  _ a nightmare. But a nightmare that’s very much real.

 

He shudders, makes the most of being under the water to shed the one tear or two that got stuck in his ducts, and reaches for the towels. By the time he’s all clean and dried, she’s back, and he’s relieved to see she hasn’t pushed the joke too far and offers him dark blue boxers, ample faded jeans and a tee-shirt that’s gonna be twice too large, even for him.

  
  


“These should fit,” she says as he slips the underwear up his legs. “I actually have more pairs of these than knickers. Only have one dress, too. I’m a practical woman, and lace and dresses don’t qualify.”

“I could have guessed,” he shrugs - while the jeans are ample, they’re rather short and fall just above his ankles. “I like that about you. You do look beautiful in a dress, though. That first night I saw you? Phew.”

“Glad my seduction act worked,” she smiles, taking his hand to lead him downstairs, in the kitchen. “Sit down, I need to fix your shoulder. Doesn’t look too bad, but I’d rather...  _ Dress  _ it.”

“Clever, lass. Go on, torture me, then.”

“I… Would you… Just don’t use that word, please?” she asks - he hears the tremor in her voice and sees her fingers shaking when she reaches for the bag of medical supplies. “I’d rather just take care of you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he answers, clasping his hands loosely over his knees, giving himself a hard mental slap for the blunder. “Sorry, lass. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“That’s alright. Tell me if it hurts, yeah?”

  
  


He agrees with a nod, but it’s a lie. Just a little white lie. Even if it hurts, he’s not going to tell her. He barely shudders  when she sprays the cold antiseptic over the wound - it mustn’t be too big, because she deems two  _ pschits  _ to be enough. He feels the soft cotton she runs against his skin, and if he hadn’t seen the white piece of fluff turned red with blood she leaves on the counter; he might have believed there was no wound at all. She takes another bottle,  _ GLUE  _ printed on the sticker in big red letters, and before he can protest he feels the cold gel trickle down his shoulder blade. Well, she probably knows what she’s doing. So, he lets her squeeze his skin, mashes his flesh together like a vulgar piece of meat - it’s more a DIY workshop than proper care, he believes. Still, he won’t make any comment.

  
  


“Try not to use your left arm too much for about an hour,” she tells him before she sticks a large square of gauze over the wound. “Until the adhesive properly dries. What are your sizes?”

“My sizes?”

“For clothes. I’m going to Primark to get you a few things. It’s the only shop open on Sundays, so it’ll have to do until we can get you better stuff. I’ll stop by the Tesco, too, get some groceries and toiletries for you. Just text me what you usually use.”

“I can come with you, I’m alright,” he shrugs - only with his right shoulder, the left one feels too rigid.

“You need to rest, Alec,” she says, and he notices she’s rather stern - is she cross with him for his awful blunder? “And, that aside, you can’t go out like this. I won’t be long, probably just a couple hours. Do you need me to get you anything else? Order some food?”

“No, I’m good. Are you… Angry?”

“No. No, I’m just a bit wound up. Sorry, it’s not you, Alec. It’s just… I didn’t come here for this. I wanted to leave my crap life behind, and now I’m in even deeper crap. I just feel like I quitted a shitty job just to get a shittier one and I hate it. But it’s not you, yeah?”

“Aye, okay.”

“Think you can manage on your own?” 

  
  


She’s asking, but she’s also already shoving her arms into her jacket and slinging her bag over her shoulder, so it doesn’t really matter what he answers.

  
  


“Aye, I’ll be fine,” he reassures her, catching her hand before she can run off. “Only two hours, right?”

“I’ll do my best,” she smiles as she wraps an arm around his neck and plants a soft kiss on his lips. “Try to rest a bit, darling, yeah?”

“Hmm,” he hums - because he just has to pull on her hand again and kiss her again when she calls him darling again. “I’ll try. And you try to be careful out there, aye? Call me, if anything happens”

“Promise. Now  _ rest _ .”

  
  


She kisses him one last time, and then she’s out. The whole house falls quiet, the silence only broken by the light buzz of the refrigerator in the kitchen. His shoulder still throbs a bit - not painful, but annoying. His stomach still feels odd. His head hurts a little. The jeans feel a bit too tight around his waist. The tee-shirt must be old and smells a little musty.

 

His eyes shoot to the ceiling when it creaks softly. They fly to the window pane when he hears a muffled sound in the garden. They dart to the light muslin curtain that flutters. He inhales a sharp breath when the old cuckoo clock chimes one in the afternoon.

 

He’s doesn’t think he’s going to get much rest.

 

* * *

 


	21. Lipstick

* * *

 

 

When he wakes up, he knows it’s not from a peaceful sleep. He knows that because his feet are all tangled in the sheet. He knows that because he’s hot despite the cold breeze of the night bleeding through the half-open window. He knows that because his cheeks are wet. There, sitting upright against the headboard, eyes wide flying from one corner of the foreign room to the other, fingers clutching the sheet to his chest threatening to implode around his heart, he’s not peaceful. 

 

A nightmare. Probably. He doesn’t remember much, he only remembers ribbons of images that have no logical continuity but are all woven of the same thread. The message. The cameras. The fish. The flames. Flashes of memories that wring his guts and knot his throat. But an even more terrifying image plagued this nightmare. Every one of these images came obscured by a mysterious figure dressed in black, a faceless shadow. Dark, ominous. 

 

Usually, when he has nightmares linked to cases, that figure has no shape. It’s more of a presence he knows is hiding in the darkness, but he can’t see it, can’t touch it, and the feeling dissipates soon enough. Usually, it’s hard to remember anything from his nightmares, because his brain is like a bag of marbles when he’s asleep, and when he wakes up, it bursts open and the hundreds of marbles tumble down the stairs. These marbles are hard to catch. They’re small and fast and slippery, and, usually, he can only catch a few. But that’s only usually.

 

Because right now, he’s gathered enough marbles to know what the nightmare was about. The ribbons of images. The dark figure. Unsettling, yes, and worrying, and unnerving. Not enough to cause the tears he still feels on his cheeks. No. The tears come from something else. Another image. Another marble. A picture so colourful, so clear, so detailed he starts to wonder if it really happened. Well, of course, it didn’t. It couldn’t, and it _didn’t_. The picture, he sees it, it’s there, just like these optical illusions you have to stare at for a minute before looking away and seeing something that’s not really here. Staring at black and white, blink, see colours. Staring at abstract art, blink, see a landscape, or a face.

 

He sees the colours, and the face. An illusion. Floating there, somewhere between his eyes and the white wall. An illusion. 

 

He blinks, hard, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, wipes the tears away from his cheeks with broad swipes of his fingers, tries to chase the nightmare, the sleep and the fear away. But the illusion, it doesn’t fade, the picture doesn’t vanish, the colours are dark but intense, the shapes are softened by the shadows, but they’re clear. The image from his nightmare, it’s real. It’s real, because he’s looking into a mirror.

 

The face he saw in his nightmare, it’s his. It was him. The message, he wrote it. The cameras, he set them up. The fish, he killed them. The fire, he started it. 

 

He tries to take a long, deep breath, ends up gulping down a small gasp. His eyes darts to her face, nestled in the pillow, but apart from a soft snore, she doesn’t react. Good. She can’t wake up. He doesn’t want her to wake up. He doesn’t want to have to explain the tears and the sweat and the terror on the face staring back at him through that sodden mirror. He doesn’t want to tell her about the nightmare. He doesn’t want to tell her about the images. He doesn’t want to tell her,  _ what if? _

 

He carefully entangles his legs from the cover and pulls it up over her shoulder so she won’t be drawn out of her sleep by the cold. The moonlight filtering through the thin curtains guides his steps across the bedroom. He winces at the sound his naked feet make on the vinyl flooring, decides it’s better to tiptoe until he reaches the safety of the corridor. He doesn’t want to turn the light on in the bathroom - he knows the fan turns on as well and it hums so loud it could make the whole house shake on its foundations. He just needs some water, anyway. He gropes his way around, follows the wall with his fingertips and finds the edge of the mirror hanging above the sink. Just some water.

 

Of course, he’s forgotten about the bloody taps that puke water faster that the Niagara falls. He curses under his breath when freezing water splashes all over him, over his feet, and hurries to turn it off even before he can get a few refreshing swigs. He should have stayed in bed. No other choice but to turn the lights on, now, he needs to wipe the mess he’s just made.

 

Thankfully, he remembers there’s a small neon light attached to the mirror, and he swats his hand in the air until it meets the small string. He pulls it. He should have stayed in bed.

 

A wave of panic rushes through him, and it has nothing to do with his reflection. He can’t think clearly, can’t see clearly, his eyes fill up with fresh tears and his throat hurts, whimpers struggling past the ball of terror he can’t swallow. His shaking fingers reach for the tube of red lipstick, it stains his hands because he just wants to put the cap back on but the aim isn’t quite right and he scrapes bits off. In his dazed frenzy he throws it into the sink and wipes his palms over his chest, smears it all around, snatches a towel and tries to clean it, but it’s lipstick and it sticks, it clings to his skin, no matter how hard he rubs and scrubs it stays, like indelebile paint. 

 

He turns on the water, and fuck it, he lets the water splash and splatter all around, drench his towel because maybe, the water will help clean it all. He knocks the soap dispenser off, it shatters on the tiled floor, loud, but it doesn’t matter any longer, because all he wants is to get rid of that lipstick, and maybe he should just break that mirror as well, because he rubs and rubs and all it does is smear it around without erasing the words.

  
  


“Alec?”

  
  


The fan turns on, so loud, that horrible droning sound, the sudden bright light blinds him, but his hands don’t stop, they just keep running the soaked towel all over the mirror, and fuck, she’s read the words now, hasn’t she?

  
  


“Alec, calm down,” she orders - he thinks it’s an order, it sounds strict, severe, sharp, but he sure as Hell won’t follow that order.

“I’m not,” he grunts - no, he  _ whimpers _ , pitiful, ridiculous, with all those tears rolling down his cheeks and his running nose he doesn’t even bother wiping. “I’m not, I’m fucking not, do you understand? I am  _ not _ !”

“Don’t yell at me and listen,” she says - was he yelling, no he wasn’t, maybe he was, no he wasn’t, yes he was, he hears his own hoarse voice ringing in his ears so he was. “Alec, stop.”

  
  


But he doesn’t, he can’t, it’s like he’s not even in control anymore, he rubs and rubs and rubs, and if he can’t properly clean all that blood-red lipstick maybe he can make the words unreadable. Because he’s fucking  _ not _ . 

 

He’s startled when she grabs his wrist and tugs on the towel, hard enough to steal it away from his clawing fingers. She grabs him by the shoulders, pushes him, shoves him down so he sits on the toilet. He wants to get back up, keep cleaning, but then she’s unhooking the mirror from the wall and she disappears in the corridor with it - good riddance, he thinks, and he hopes he’s never going to see that mirror again.

 

She’s only gone a minute, not even a minute. But one minute is a long time. Long enough to realize how loud he’s sobbing in the silence of the bathroom, long enough to realize how fast his heart is beating and how painful it feels, long enough to realize he’s sitting on a toilet seat, naked and covered in red lipstick. Jesus. The words. What if the words are right?  _ What if?  _

 

He lets his body slide down to the cold floor, lets his back fall against the vanity, gathers his legs against his chest, hides his face in his palms. And he cries. Is this another episode from his nightmare? Is it real? Is it not? When did this happen? When did he start doubting his sanity?

 

He hears her come back but he doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Maybe if he doesn’t, she’ll go away and he won’t have to face the humiliation and conversation. But she doesn’t go away. She rummages through a cupboard, and he feels more than hears her sit in front of him.

  
  


“Look at me, please?” she says softly - bloody Hell, she’s talking to him like she would to a lunatic, now. “Alec?”

“I’m not a loony,” he only answers between gritted teeth, allowing her to tug on his hands to reveal his face.

“I never said you were.”

“How did he get in here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think I wrote this?”

“I don’t know.”

 

He does his best not to let anger poison his blood at this answer, does his best to understand what this must look like to her, but his best is a thread short of enough to keep the frown off his face. Rather than biting on words he’s going to regret, he bites his tongue. She’s here, with him, she stayed, with him, and while part of him wants to see her gone so she can’t see him like this, he’s thankful she’s not giving up on his sorry arse. 

 

She cleans his chest, first, with a soft flannel covered with a smooth cream that smells a bit like baby soap. She’s gentle. More gentle than he deserves.  Then she cleans his neck, then his cheek. He doesn’t like the smell much, nor the way the cream feels on his skin - almost gluey, thick, greasy. But it removes the lipstick, so he can’t complain. 

 

She takes his hand, then, the right one, and that’s when he feels it. It’s not only his fingers that are shaking, it’s also hers. The tears have dried, it makes it easier to see, and he’s suddenly struck by how pale she looks. In the bright light of the bathroom, her rosy cheeks have turned white, her fair complexion almost translucent, and her lips… Her full pink lips, those lips he loves, he can barely make them out. And she cried. Maybe not as loud or as much as he did, but she cried. He sees it. The black eyeliner she didn’t fully remove before they went to sleep, it’s a bit smudged under her eyes. And he sees the tear streaks she didn’t fully wipe on the apple of her cheeks.

  
  


“Rose, are you alright?” he asks, momentarily forgetting his anger and shame.

  
  


She doesn’t answer, she just keeps cleaning his fingers and doesn’t even try to meet his eyes. Of course, she’s not alright. Either that bloke broke into her house without any of them noticing, or  _ he  _ did it without any of them realizing. Either that bloke is bonkers, or  _ he  _ is. There’s no best case scenario. 

  
  


“Alec, your heart medication…’ she starts - and he knows he won’t like it, because she cleans his fingers quicker, harder, and she bows her head even more. “Could there be any unknown side effects?”

  
  


No, he doesn’t like that question much. She doubts him. Really doubts him. It’s not like two days ago, when she asked if he stole the chicken just so he could understand how fucked he was. This time, she doesn’t want him to understand he could be a suspect. This time, she truly believes he could be a suspect. 

 

But the mirror’s wrong. He didn’t write those words..  _ I’m not a schizo psycho. _

  
  


“Ask my cardiologist,” he growls, roughly pushing her away before he gets up on his feet.

“Alec, I’m sorry,” she says - it looks like she’s imploring, begging for his forgiveness, like she knows he question was stupid. “But…”

“But?  _ But _ ?There’s not  _ but _ , Rose!” he interrupts, taking a step back towards the door so he won’t be tempted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she comes to her senses. “I’m not a loony! It wasn’t me!  I’m not crazy, for fuck’s sake!”

“Why did you come here?”

“What?”

“Why did you go to the bathroom at three in the morning?” she insists - and she gets closer, takes his hand, and he doesn’t know if it’s fear or doubt or sickening compassion on her face. “You didn’t turn the lights on, didn’t use the loo. I come in here, you’re naked, covered in lipstick, crying, trying to clean the mirror because you obviously didn’t want me to see it. What am I to do with this, Alec? What should I think?”

“You’re supposed to think this is some kind of morbid scheme to have me framed-up!” he yells - now he yells, there’s no doubt, he’s furious and resentful, because he thought  _ she  _ would never question his honesty and lucidity, and it doesn’t matter that  _ he  _ isn’t even sure he’s sane. “You’re supposed to believe me! I did  _ not  _ do this!”

“Come with me.”

  
  


He wants to protest, but she’s already grabbed him by the elbow, and she leads him towards the bedroom with a firm hand on the small of his back. He doesn’t care. She can’t prove he did it. He didn’t do it. He just had a nightmare. He huffs and glares at her  when she shoves his brand new pair of boxers in his hand, a silent request for him to put them on. So he does, not without muttering curses under his breath and planning on getting out of this house, away from her and her suspicion that makes his blood boil. He thought he’d found a partner.  _ My arse _ . Partners are supposed to trust each other, support each other, help each other. She’s not a partner. Not even a friend. 

  
  


“Come here,” she demands with an authority that’s only undermined by her trembling voice. “I want you to see this.”

  
  


He grinds his teeth, swallows the few other curses he wanted to bark, and he joins her by the window. They’re close, so close their naked arms are touching and he notices - without a pang of regret - the lone tear hanging to her eyelash. A silver pearl that disappears when she blinks, makes it easier to forget she’s hurt, maybe, desperate, probably. He doesn’t care, because she doesn’t either.

 

He crosses his arms over his chest and watches her open the window fully. It’s cold out there, the salt breeze coming from the sea gushing through, whipping his naked skin and ruffling his hair. What the Hell does she want him to see? Her cute garden with little multicoloured flowers? The view, the landscape, half-hill half-sea? Maybe she wants to throw him out the window? He thinks the last option best. If he lands well enough - preferably head first so he can break his neck or crush his skull - he won’t have to keep fighting through this horrible nightmare. 

 

She takes her phone from the bedside table, hands it to him. Then she takes the tee-shirt he’s left on the bed. She throws the tee-shirt out the window. And it’s immediate. The whole garden is brought to life by a glaring white light that illuminates to the last little petal of flower. The phone starts to vibrate in his hand, the screen lights up, a screeching alarm makes him wince and unconsciously bring his palms to cover his ears.

  
  


“Turn it off!” he barks loud enough to cover the horrible sound, shoving the phone in her hands. “What the fuck is this?”

  
  


Two swipes of her thumb on the screen and a heavy silence falls on his shoulders, dots of light blinking all around the room because the small lamp isn’t enough to compensate the sudden disappearance of the thousand-watt light.

  
  


“Security,” she answers, sitting down on the bed with a weary sigh, half-heartedly patting the mattress to ask him to sit down - he doesn’t. “Had it installed yesterday. Movement detector lights all around the house, linked to an app on my phone. Alec, no one can get in without us knowing, and I just…”

“Fine,’ he nods, his mouth twisting into a grimace he meant to be a smile. “Fine, I’m a loony, then. You’re right, I did it. It’s not like there could be any other explanations, no. Everyone knows this high-tech crap is infallible. So I did it.”

“Alec, you’ve read the words.  _ Maybe I’m a schizo psycho _ .”

“Yeah, and I wrote them, ‘cause I’m fucking crazy, right?”

“You said those exact words to me yesterday. In your bedroom. We were alone and the mics, if there were any, couldn’t have been working. If it’s someone else, how did they hear you say that?”

“No one heard it, ‘cause I did it, okay?” he spits the words like venom as he strides towards the cupboard and hurries to grab a pair a jeans, a tee-shirt and a sweater. “I can’t say I didn’t, I can’t prove I didn’t, so I did it. I’ve gone completely bonkers and everything that happened, it was me.”

  
  


He dresses, shrugs his jacket over his shoulders, snatches his waller from the bedside table. He wants to go. He needs to go. He hurtles down the stairs and shoves his feet into his shoes, not even taking the time to lace them. She’s behind him, talking to him, but he doesn’t hear anything over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Whatever she’s saying, he doesn’t want to hear it anyway. 

 

Before he can open the door, she’s against him, pinning him, locking his wrists and glaring at him with so much tears in her eyes they look bigger than they’re supposed to.

  
  


“Come to the station tomorrow,” she says - part of him realizes she’ not even trying to convince him to stay, and the small thread of hope he still had, the hope that she trusts him, wants him, likes him, the thread snaps and his whole world comes crashing down around him. “I’ll have a psych eval and a blood test planned. Then you’ll hand me your resignation letter.”

“Whatever my boss wants. Goodnight, DCI Tyler. And fuck you, Rose.”

  
  


He smiles, a big fake smile that hurts his cheeks, shoulders her away and chortles at her outraged gasp. He yanks the door open, and he leaves. The bright light of the movement detector comes to life as soon as he goes down the first step, the ghost of the blaring alarm reaches his ears from upstairs. He only answers with his middle finger raised high in the air, and he smirks when he hears her yell  _ wanker  _ before the door slams shut. 

 

It’s good to be a tosser again. Especially a loony one. Now he can piss on the world and he’ll have a very good excuse. He’s just a schizo psycho, after all.

 

* * *

 


	22. Bacardi

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t know how he got there. Well, he walked. Aimlessly, at first, just away from that house, away from her. He’s in the main street, now, dimly lit by a few lamplights. Not a soul in sight. No sound but the regular, dull thump of his steps on the pavement that puts him in some sort of trance. His brain is turned off, and he’s scared to turn it on again. He doesn’t want to think  doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to feel. This might very well be the worst night of his life.

 

He’s drawn to the bright storefront of a convenience store, the only shop of the small town that stays open through the night. Like a moth to a flame, he’s attracted by the blinking lights and the soft buzz coming from the yellow neons. The keeper is sprawled over the desk, dozing off with his cheek cradled in the palm of his hand. It’s obvious he doesn’t get that many customers at such ridiculous hours. 

 

He slams his hand on the counter and the forty-something man is jolted out of his nap.

  
  


“A twenty pack of Marlboro and a bottle of Bacardi,” he asks in a gruff tone - fuck, he’s glad he hasn’t lost the hang of it, and he grins at the way that man hurries to get him what he wants. “And a lighter.”

“Thirty-eight pounds, mate,” he tells him, voice still covered by the veil of sleep. 

“Glad you don’t wipe your crack with briars,” he smirks, just a bit unkindly, because he forgot how expensive this kind of shite can be. “Keep the change.”

  
  


He lets his two twenty pound bills flutter down on the counter, takes his plastic bag and walks out to once again find himself in the deserted street. Alone, in silence. Why did he buy this stuff? Ah, yes. Keep his brain turned off. Because in just a few hours, he’ll probably be in an interrogation room. Or an asylum room. Either. Neither really tickle his fancy. Jesus, he needs to stop thinking about this. 

 

_ Click _ .  _ Click _ .  _ Click _ . It’s annoying, this click, as he keeps walking along the pavement. A pebble stuck in the tread of his shoe, he believes. If he’s not crazy already, this is the kind of things that could get him there rather quickly.  _ Click _ .  _ Click _ .  _ Click _ . Maybe he could hop on one foot. He would look crazy, with his plastic bag dangling from his fingers, hopping his way towards God knows where. Ah. He would certainly look the part.  _ Crazy Hardy, killing fish and poultry. _ Maybe the fact that he’s humming those words along a childish tune, a big smile plastered over his face, should be enough to prove he’s gone completely bonkers. 

 

His heart misses a beat when he walks past a storefront - there are no neons on that one, and not enough light around to discern much more than a hamster cage. It’s the town’s pet shop. If he pricks his ear, he can hear the squawk of a parrot coming from the other side of the shop, the mewl of a kitten, the whine of a puppy. The  _ bloop bloop _ of a fish tank. Fish. Loads and loads of fish in that shop. Exotic, colorful, big, small, cute, ugly. And a whole tank of goldfish, like the ones he found dead on his doorstep. 

 

A shiver courses down his spine and makes the thin hair at the back of his neck rise. He curses his imagination. Because he can picture himself going in there, then going out with a bag hosting two goldfish. One fast-forward later and he pictures himself crouching down, tearing the bag open, letting the fish twist and jump as they slowly die from a lack of oxygen. Of course, he didn’t do any of that. Why would he? Kill goldfish. Preposterous. He’s not crazy. He’s not schizophrenic, and he’s not a psychopath.  _ Is he? _

 

The cork of his Bacardi bottle comes off with a high-pitched pop. The cold liquor burns its way down his throat, the strong taste sticks to his tongue, he gags a little because that swig was too much at once. Well, the faster he drinks, the faster his brain will disconnect. He swallows saliva that floods his mouth and keeps his throat locked. That Bacardi will only flow one way. 

 

He leaves the quiet symphony of chirps and yaps and  _ bloop bloops _ behind, and he keeps walking. His phone buzzes in his pocket - Rose, he can only guess, and she can keep calling as much as she wants, he won’t answer. He’s engulfed in a dark street only lit by a few reflections of the moonlight on puddles of water. The click is replaced by a splash, and he curses at the cold water that seeps through the nylon threads of his shoes, soaks his socks and his feet. It’s fine. Another large swig of that rum and he won’t mind his cold feet as much.

 

Where are these feet taking him, by the way? Oh yes, he recognizes this street. He knows it well. When his small shack was still standing, that was the road he borrowed to go to the post office. He crunches his nose at the faint smell of cold ashes that still lingers in the street. That smell makes him sick, so, instead of puking and wasting the five-pound worth of alcohol bathing his stomach, he drinks some more and only breathes through his mouth. That way, he can taste the rum but can’t smell the fire. 

 

He keeps walking, but his steps are steadily losing their conviction and coordination. When was the last time he over-indulged in strong alcohol? He can’t remember. Years ago. Maybe. He’s not even sure he’s ever been properly pished - he’s never liked big parties, never had that many friends, never understood what was the point of drinking so much it often meant spending the next two days in bed getting high on paracetamol. Well. There’s a first for everything. He won’t die ignorant. So he swallows another gulp.

 

How long has it been since he started drinking? He looks at his watch, squints because he has trouble discerning the numbers, chuckles low in his throat when he realizes he hasn’t pressed the button to activate the backlight. That’s a four. He thinks. And a another four. There’s an zero  in between, but these are two fours, and zero is zero. Forty-four.

  
  


“Oh, it’s my birthday next week,” he grins to himself, bringing his bottle to his lips - shit, it’s half-empty already, but at least there’s enough to celebrate. “Let’s light a candle, shall we?”

  
  


His knees are growing weaker, and he half-stumbles towards the boardwalk, only catching his balance against  a construction barrel - is his house already being renovated, then? Oh, and is he already home? That was fast. He slips - crawls, more like - under the blue and white ribbon of tape that bars the entrance to the boardwalk. It’s his house over there, and while there’s not much left, what’s left is his. He has the right to be here. Maybe he doesn’t, but who cares, it’s not like anyone is going to see him at this hour. He forgets to keep breathing through his mouth and inhales a deep smell of burnt wood and plastic, of ashes and dust. Disgusting. He drinks some more, suddenly regretting not buying two bottles instead of one because he has a feeling one won’t be enough to drown everything he has to drown.

  
  


“That was one Hell of a candle,” he sighs, staring at the burnt carcass of what used to be his pretty house, a shapeless mass of wood and glass and concrete that’s still fuming in some sparse places. “Happy fucking birthday to me.”

  
  


He fishes out - no, not fishes out, no fish, he can’t stand fish, so he just reaches into his plastic bag to find his pack of cigarettes. Ironic, to light a cigarette while he’s contemplating this pile of charred crap. He has a puff, draws on it for a second too long, swallows the smoke instead of breathing it in, coughs and coughs and feels his eye water. When was the last time he smoked? Ah, yes, his wedding. That was actually the first time. The first, and the last. Until now. He won’t be defeated by a bloody Marlboro, so he tries again, lets the smoke coat his tongue and flow to his lungs. It feels heavy, thick. If he wasn’t pished, maybe he would find it repugnant. 

 

But he knows he’s drunk, now. A fleeting thought, a blurred realization that he’s wavering on his feet, that he feels like he’s on a merry-go-round going too fast, that the world spins around him, that his limbs and eyelids feel heavy. That, and he can’t really think. Ah, wonderful. His brain is fully off. Off, off,  _ off _ . He can’t even remember why he wanted to turn it off. 

 

Because of Rose? No, not Rose, Rose is wonderful, Rose is his partner, and he’s falling in love with Rose, and maybe one day they’ll get married and have kids, because he loves her, this woman, and shit, he needs to apologize because she’s gonna ask for a divorce if he doesn’t apologize. Wait. No. Yes. Oh fuck. They argued, didn’t they? About what? He can’t remember. Not that it matters. He can’t lose her. He needs her. He needs to man up and apologize. Yes, good idea, apologize to Rose.

 

He flicks his cigarette stub away towards his house - what’s left of it, sees the smoke that still rises among the rubble, panics because he thinks he’s started another fire. He steps over the debris, stomps his foot to crush the stub under his heel, panics even more when it does nothing to stop the smoke. Well, it’s burnt already anyway. No one’s going to notice. The panic leaves as fast as it came, and he walks away.

 

Another swig. Another cigarette. Oh, her house looks nice. There, atop the hill, it looks like it’s out of a cartoon or something. But it’s his as well. She said so, after he put their bedroom together, she said she wanted to share all of it with him, that it wasn’t mine, that it’s ours.  _ Their  _ house looks nice. He giggles, can’t stop smiling, struggles for long minutes with the lock on the picket-gate until he understands it’s already unlocked. He falls forward and it opens under the push of his weight, he ends up on his knees, laughs, laughs loud and hard, so hard it makes him painfully aware of his bladder that’s now full, because his bottle is now empty. He scrambles back to his feet, bites down on his cigarettes and zig-zags towards the nearest bush.

 

He’s barely aware the lights are turned on in the front garden, he barely hears the front door open. He kind of hears and kind of sees, but it’s not really important, is it? Part of him remembers he came here to apologize, but while the intention was clear and firm then, it’s obscure and trivial now.

  
  


“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

  
  


Oh, he missed this voice, and his smile grows bigger on his face as he looks at her through heavy-lidded eyes. 

  
  


“Coming home,” he chuckles, unbuckling his belt, slightly wobbling on his feet as he pulls down his jeans and underwear. ‘An’ I need a piss.”

“Alec Hardy, you are  _ not  _ pissing in my flowers!” 

“Too late,” he mumbles around his cigarette stub - ah, that feels good, and he sighs in relief. “S’rry. Wan’ a fag?”

  
  


She doesn’t answer, so he just shrugs and groans some more. When did pissing become so satisfying? He shouldn’t have thrown his head back, because he loses his balance and falls back, landing painfully on his butt - thank Fuck he was done. He was, right? 

  
  


“You are disgusting!”

  
  


Ah. Maybe he wasn’t. He looks down at his lap but before he can properly focus on what’s happened - Jesus he’s pissed himself - she grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him up on his feet. The sudden and unexpected change of perspective makes his head spin and he almost tumbles down again. His knees buckle, his body slouches, but he doesn’t fall. She’s holding him. Oh, Rose. She smells nice. The strawberry he loves. He likes strawberries, and Rose, she smells like freshly picked strawberries. Shame he smells like piss and Bacardi and cigarette. She’s beautiful, too. He said that before. She’s beautiful. Not just beautiful, but right now, that’s what he sees. 

  
  


“You’re beautiful,” he slurs, pressing his nose into her soft cheek, smacking his lips against her jaw. “Fuck lass, you’re so beautiful. I wanna kiss you.”

“Don’t touch me like that,” she says - she sounds angry, but he doesn’t understand why, after all he’s usually not so keen on complimenting people so she should enjoy it, right? “Can you climb up the stairs?”

“You’re gonna be impressed, but aye, I can,” he laughs, reaching for the handrail - that he misses by a certain margin, so he ends up falling head first into one of the steps.

  
  


She probably saves his life, because he feels her tug on his collar and stop his wild descent, and shit, going up and down like that doesn’t do wonders to his stomach. He feels it, the liquid that’s still inside, waves that crash against the walls of his stomach and mix with what little’s left of the dinner they shared the night before. His hand clutches the thin fabric of his jumper, and he’s not really smiling anymore. 

  
  


“Gonna be sick,” he warns her - that’s rather civil, isn’t it, to tell her he’s about to repaint the stairs if they don’t hurry.

“Oh, no, you fucking aren’t, Hardy. Get up.”

“I  _ am  _ up,” he whines, annoyed that she can’t see he’s already halfway there.

“No, no you’re not. Damn, you’re heavier than you look. Help me, Alec, I can’t carry you.”

“Lass, I... “ he starts, stops when his whole body is wrenched by a powerful gag, slaps a hand over his mouth.

“You’d better hold it,” she seethes between her teeth, and all of the sudden she’s pulling on his jacket and dragging him up the stairs.

“If you gave me some scotch, I’d hold it better.”

“What about a kick in the arse? Move it, Hardy!”

  
  


He has to crawl up the stairs on his knees and hands when she keeps tugging, pulling, dragging him up. It’s a bit of blur, but a moment later he’s bent over the toilet and the Bacardi he promised would only flow the way down ends up flowing the way up. He thinks that’s twice he’s puked his guts out when she’s around. Can’t make a habit out of that. Well, right now, maybe it’s not that bad that he’s puking. He’s pished enough, might as well get rid of the alcohol that’s not in his blood yet. He coughs, spits, blows his nose into a few toilet sheets.

  
  


“I broke the toilets!” he shouts towards the corridor - because yes, he pulls on the string to flush, pulls and pulls, but it’s not working.

“No, but you’ve just killed the neon,” she says when she comes back - ah, so that’s why the light of the bathroom momentarily flickered on and off, then. “Take off your clothes. You stink.”

  
  


He blinks, flares his nostrils to take a sniff, but he wouldn’t exactly say he stinks. Apart from the rancid vomit in the back of his throat that fills his nose with vapours of alcohol and something less flowery, he doesn’t smell much. She has to be exaggerating. Still, he blinks his agreement as she flushes the toilets - ah, it’s a push-button, not a string, that’s why. She disappears again, what for, he doesn’t know, but she’s gone. So he takes another cigarette out of the pack, sits on the toilet seat and lights it with the crap lighter that cost him a fortune. He can get used to this. Smoking. His cardiologist did say he should smoke. No,  _ shouldn’t  _ smoke. Shouldn’t drink either. But what the Hell, everyone has to die of something.

  
  


“You are kidding me, Alec,” she groans, and he smiles, lips stirring around the stub as he sucks in a large puff - just before she plucks the cigarette off his mouth, shoves him away and throws it into the toilet bowl.

“Oi, I paid for these!”

“You can smoke all the fags you want when you’re outside. Not in here. Now shut up and raise your arms.”

“What for?”

“I need to take off your clothes myself because you’re drunk as a skunk and you can’t stand straight. Don’t make me ask twice.”

“‘M not that pished, lass, I can…”

“Fine, because you insist...”

  
  


He opens his mouth to protest some more, though he doesn’t exactly know what he wants to protest against, but she’s pulling his jumper over his head along with his tee-shirt, then she’s pulling his jeans and underwear down his legs, taking off his shoes, his socks - has she always been this rude? He doesn’t deserve such a rough treatment, does he? Oh, yes, he does. He thinks. Maybe. Fuck. 

  
  


“Fuck!” he gasps when cold water cascades over his naked body, because she’s shoved him in the shower and she’s already squeezing shampoo in her hands. “It’s freezing!”

“Maybe it’ll help clear up your head.”

“Are you angry or what?” he asks between chattering teeth, rolling his arms around him in a vain attempt to warm up.

“What do you think, Alec?” she snaps, and he sees her roll her eyes just before she starts to shampoo his hair like he’s some kind of smelly stray dog. “You rush out of here before we can sit down and talk, you come back three hours later completely sloshed. I tried calling you, you didn’t answer. I was worried sick, wondering where you were, what could have gone through your head and what you were doing. Yes, I’m angry. Furious. I’m fucking livid, Alec. And I don’t even know why I bother telling you this, because chances are you won’t remember any of it when you wake up. But I bloody care about you and you scared the shit out of me.”

“You think I’m crazy,” he sighs, his eyelids fluttering shut, his whole body leaning against the wall because he’s suddenly very tired and his wobbly legs can’t hold his weight. “You think I’m guilty. You don’t care about me.”

“D’you think I would be washing your own piss off of you if I didn’t care?”

“Dunno. I… Dunno.”

“Don’t fall asleep just yet, Alec. Talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  
  


He keeps his eyes closed, and then he feels it, the way his legs tremble and his knees shake, the way his whole body vacillates and his head lolls from one shoulder to the other. And then he’s falling. No, not falling, because Rose, she’s here, and she’s strong enough to roll her arms around his waist and gently help him down. The cold water, it helps. His thoughts are still unclear, but he’s more aware of what’s happening. Rose, washing him. His blood, hot with alcohol. His head, throbbing, painful, his stomach, churning, twisting. His muscles filled with lead, his skin oozing Bacardi like fetid sweat. The tang of puke in his throat and the foul smell of smoke. Did he do this? Yes. Yes he did. Why?

  
  


“I’m not mad, Rose,” he breathes out, wishing he could fully appreciate her hands on his chest, on his arms, on his legs. “What’s happening… It’s not me. You have to trust me. Please. Please, Rose.”

“I want to trust you, darling. Desperately so. But…”

“Stop, stop, fuck, just… Stop... Don’t sweat it, Rose, just don’t. I can’t hear any other  _ buts _ .”

“ _ But _ you’ll have to hear me when you can understand what I’m saying,” she interrupts with a scowl, turning the water off and wrapping him in a thick towel. “Gosh you’re so pigheaded, Alec. Whether you like it or not, we’ll have to talk. When you’re sober and fully awake.”

  
  


She helps him to his feet, rubs his body hard and quick with the towel, slips a pair of boxers and pyjama pants up his legs, pulls a tee-shirt over his head. He’s too tired, too exhausted to protest any longer, his tongue turned to cotton in his mouth, his eyes closing, heavy, his whole body a dead weight he can’t even move on his own. She guides him to the bedroom, puts him to bed, tucks him under the duvet.

  
  


“Drink this before you sleep,” she orders as she hands him a full glass of sparkling water. “Alka-Seltzer. I’ll leave a full bottle by the bed, and I put a bucket here just in case you feel sick again. I put your phone to charge so you can call me if anything happens. Will you be alright?”

“You’re not staying?” he mumbles between two gulps of fresh water - he has a feeling he’s going to need more than just a glass, and he’s thankful for her consideration he doesn’t deserve.

“I have to go, darling. It’s already past seven in the morning. I have to work. I’ll sign your resignation letter myself and ask the psychologist and the nurse to come tomorrow. Can’t have a blood test today, with all that Bacardi in your system.”

“You really meant it. The psych eval. The blood test. The resignation.”

  
  


She sighs, sits on the bed next to him, gently cups his cheek. She’s so soft. Tender. She’s still angry, he believes - though in his current state, he fails to find a reason why she wouldn’t be. Angry, but it’s not the bad kind of anger. It’s the kind of anger that says, I care about you and I don’t even know why I bother to. It’s the kind of anger that can’t exist with affection, without compassion. 

  
  


“A psych eval and a blood test are the only things we can do to prove you’re sane and not under the influence of any drugs, be it deliberate or not,” she explains - oh, that feels rather good, her fingers massaging that sore spot behind his ear. “All the clues we have to open the investigation, they point to you. You can’t keep working at the station, Alec. You won’t be safe until we find who’s trying to frame you up.”

“So you do believe I didn’t do it?”

“No, I don’t believe you did any of this, darling. I mean… Rose doesn’t, not for a second. It’s more complicated for Detective Tyler.”

“And I’m supposed to be the loony…” he mutters, pulling the duvet further up to cover half his face. “Well, go to Hell, Detective Tyler.”

“Fine. Wanker.”

“Can Rose kiss me, though? Rose believes me. I’m not cross with her.”

“Rose will kiss you when you’re sober. And when you stop reeking of vomit and cigarette. Now sleep, Alec, you need it.”

“‘M already sleeping.”

“Good. I’ll come back around noon to check up on you and make sure you didn’t drown in your own vomit or pissed yourself again.”

“‘Kay.”

  
  


He would like to say more - thank you, maybe, or sorry. But with his eyes closed, the warmth and the comfort of the bed, the exhaustion crushing his body, the words die on his lips. Before he falls asleep, he feels her lips on his temple and her hand on his shoulder. It’s a reassuring goodnight kiss. And he won’t refuse a bit of reassurance in the middle of this nightmare. 

 

* * *

 


	23. Thank You

* * *

 

 

He decides he never wants to be pished again, not for the rest of his life. He has a vague memory of going to bed early in the morning. He thinks. He remembers the argument that led him to buy cigarettes and alcohol. He remembers drinking. His house - the smoke and the rubble. The rest is either blurry or simply gone. There’s just an episode he thinks he could remember, but he believes it involves pissing himself at some point, so he’d rather not try to remember at all.

 

He’s feeling a bit better now - physically speaking, at the very least. His head, his stomach and his throat don’t hurt as much as a few hours ago. The first time he emerged from his drunken sleep, he wanted to die. His head ready to burst open like a cauliflower and spill his brains out. His stomach that felt both empty and full at the same time, gurgling and growling, begging for something solid, all while churning and twisting, warning that anything solid that would go in would go out at once. His throat that burnt with the acrid and rancid taste of a bile soaked in fermented vomit. And his whole body, sore, painful. Especially his arse, but he doesn’t want to dwell on that - he believes it’s linked to the piss episode and he doesn’t want to think about it.

 

He tried to drink some water, along with two tablets of paracetamol she’d left on the bedside table. The bucket was a good idea.

 

The whole morning, he went on and off, going back to sleep as soon as he woke up, desperate for the one time he would wake up and not feel like a corpse. A hamburger and a can of Dr Pepper appeared on the bedside table at some point, accompanied by a note written in elegant curves.  _ Medkit for hangovers _ . 

 

He remembers something about Rose coming back at noon to check up on him. He missed her. Probably still too pished, or too exhausted. Or both.

 

But he’s better now. Still sore, with a head that feel like a watermelon and a stomach that’s a bit selective, but better. About time. It’s almost six in the afternoon already. A whole day wasted to restless sleep and fear of puking his guts out. 

 

He’s had a cold shower to scrub the grime and the alcohol-tainted sweat off, he’s brushed his teeth, twice, drunk as much water as his insides would allow, eaten the cold hamburger. He’s feeling better. Not great, not fine, but better.

 

Sitting at the kitchen table, steaming coffee made too sweet by too many sugar cubes, he waits for her to come back from work. 

 

He’s worried. He wants to know what she thinks of him now, he wants to know if she’s angry, disappointed, if she’s going to forgive him, if not, if he’s ruined everything. He can’t remember what he told her, he can’t remember what he did to her, he can’t remember if he did or said anything that could have hurt her or her feelings. He’s worried the alcohol exacerbated the tosser in him. He’s desperate to know, and he can’t wait for her to come back. 

 

And he’s terrified, and he wishes she would never come back. Because that’s something he remembers - just those few words that must have struck him so hard even the alcohol wasn’t enough to forget. She said they’ll have to talk. He doesn’t want to talk. Not about his drunken escapade, especially not about what led to his drunken escapade. Because what could he say? What could he say, apart from  _ I didn’t do it _ ? He’s only got words, she’s got clues. He’s only got his belief and conviction that he’s not a loony, she has evidence he could be. Even the best defense barrister couldn’t help his case. 

 

His knuckles turn white around his mug of coffee and the stomachache he thought was gone comes back. The door has been unlocked, and he hears her sigh and mumble in the corridor, a dull sound - probably her bag she drops, a ruffle of clothes - probably her coat she takes off. She appears on the threshold of the kitchen, and he’s pained to see the exhaustion and worry on her face. Even the small smile that stirs her lips when she sees him isn’t enough to bring back her usual joyful beauty. 

  
  


“Hey, you’re up,” she says, sitting down next to him before she gives his cheek a quick kiss - good, that’s good, she’s not as angry as he would have thought. “I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t be.”

“I can always go back to sleep if that’s what you want,” he shrugs as he brings his cup of coffee to his lips. “Unless you want me to leave. I think there are vacancies at the Trader’s, I could stay there until I get the insurance money.”

“Chances are, you won’t get anything from your insurance company. Not any time soon.”

“What do you mean? “

  
  


He doesn’t like the way she rubs her temples, sighs, looks at him with something akin to regret or apology in her eyes. She hasn’t even started talking she already looks like she’s tired by the conversation they’re going to have. She looks like she doesn’t want to have that conversation at all. She looks like she blames him for even mentioning the insurance. It’s not good. Whatever she’s going to say, it’s not good. He puts his coffee down on the table, because he knows his stomach won’t allow anything in. He’s sick again. Sicker than he was a few hours ago, even. 

 

She takes his hand, runs her thumb in soft circles around his palm. She wants to be reassuring, he believes, but the fact that she won’t look at him, not even a glance, is far from reassuring.   
  


 

“I got the report from the firefighters this afternoon,” she starts after she clears her throat and inhales a deep breath. “It was an arson. I didn’t quite get the whole of it, but they said the fire was caused by some kind if delayed short-circuit in your toaster. They found the timer had been tampered with. Additional components that you shouldn’t find in a toaster, it seems. The fact is, it wasn’t an accident.”

“So because it was an arson, the insurance won’t give me my money?” he asks - he’s not really surprised it was an arson, he knew it was, but he’s surprised by her reaction. “I didn’t know it was mentioned in my contract.”

“It hasn’t got anything to do with your contract, Alec. They won’t give you your money, because… The little we know tends to… Determine it was your doing.”

  
  


It takes a moment for his brain to process the words, and when it does, he can’t help but laugh. It makes his stomach hurt even more, but he laughs. Fine, so, he set his own house on fire, he’s an arsonist, not only that, he’s completely mad because he has no memory of orchestrating the fire. He laughs, but none of this is funny. It’s horrifying, and he starts crying, but it doesn’t stop the almost hysterical laugh that wrecks his body. He steals chickens, kills them, kills fish, writes mysterious letters, kills cats and pigs, plants cameras in his own house before he sets it all on fire. Of course. Because that’s who he is. 

 

She seems to be scared by his sudden outburst - she stops holding his hand and moves her chair away a little, she doesn’t want to stay close to him, and she’s Goddamn right not to. Who knows what he could do, if he doesn’t even know himself?

  
  


“Please, stop,” she says -  _ begs _ , more like, with her hands joined in a silent prayer and her head bowed.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, wiping the tears away from his cheeks, wiping the smile away from his mouth. “Sorry, it’s just… I’m good, aren’t I? DIY master, psychopath, professional thief and chicken executioner. I’m a man of many prodigious talents.”

“Shut up, Alec, it’s not funny.”

“Is it not?” he grins - what the Hell, she said she has evidence that could frame him, he’s fucked, better to laugh about it than cry. “I think it is.”

“I asked the IT bloke to go through the files on your computer. He found a software that enables you to browse the dark web, and… Apparently, you visited a lot of illegal websites to buy shady stuff. Stuff that could help you… Customize your toaster. Sort of.”

“Why, yes, everyone knows I love IT, computers and all that stuff. If I didn’t choose to become a police officer, I’d be working for IBM right now. Could have been a toaster engineer, too, I...”

“Just stop it with the jokes, Hardy!” she snaps, slamming her hand down on the table - if she wasn’t angry then, she’s angry now. “Don’t be a fucking buffoon, I need to talk to a responsible adult, not a bozo who doesn’t take any of this seriously. I’m trying to understand, I’m trying to help you, but if you don’t want my help I can just handcuff you and throw you in custody, order a trial and have you jailed, case closed and to Hell with all this shit. Now, do you want to listen to what I have to say or would you rather hear my harangue about how you’re under arrest before I take you to the station?”

“I played the jester in  _ Twelfth Night _ when I was in year eight,” he answers with a small smile. “Kind of a clever buffoon. I rather enjoyed it. Maybe I should have studied drama instead of going to the police academy. Well, I suppose, by the look of  _ this shit _ , as you call it, I’m already a pretty good actor. Pretend I’m a good Detective when I’m just a criminal in disguise. Best role of my life. I deserve an Oscar.”

“Fine, just fine,” she says, severe, furious, as she takes the pair of handcuffs hooked into her belt and locks the first ring closed around his wrist. “Alec Hardy, you are under arrest on suspicion of theft, arson and animal cruelty. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not…”

“Oh, Rose, come on, don’t. I’m sorry, okay?”

  
  


He’s not exactly surprised she follows through on her threat, because he deserves it, and he just lifts his hand, lets the handcuffs dangle from his wrist, asks her with a look he hopes looks apologetic enough to unlock it. Her face says she would gladly murder him, her eyes dark and her lips pinched, and for a moment he’s scared he’s gone way too far and she’s actually going to lock him up in a custody room. Well, it wouldn’t be so bad. If he’s locked up and shit keeps happening, she’ll have proof he’s not a loony, she’ll have proof he’s innocent. All things considered, it’s not the worst of ideas. 

 

But he doesn’t want it to happen this way. For some reason, she wants to help his sorry arse, she still cares about him. He’s used to being a tosser. But what he’s putting her through, it’s worse than that. What he’s putting her through, it’s inherently wrong. Being a tosser is just an attitude, being a proper arshole is just… So  _ wrong _ . He can’t have that. He refuses to let her down. He won’t ruin her efforts.

 

He’s lost, scared, exhausted, resentful. He’s also lucky. Lucky to have her, lucky to have someone he can trust, someone he can count on. Lucky to have Rose. 

 

Rose, who stares at him, seems to hesitate between cuffing him and letting him go, who stares at him, like she wants him to say something, anything that could help his defense.

  
  


“I’m sorry, lass,” he repeats, and he doesn’t think he’s ever said those words with so much honesty and regret. “I’m sorry. Can we talk, please?”

  
  


She doesn’t answer, just stands there, and he can almost watch the ping-pong game playing in her head, how she ponders whether he’s worthy enough to be offered a second chance or not. There’s nothing more he can say to guide her decision. So, he just offers his hands to her, palms up, looks at her. And he waits. He hates to see the shine in her eyes, he hates to the clench and unclench of her jaw, he hates to see the quiver on her lip. She probably hates him. Probably as much as he hates himself. And he knows the feelings are gone. She can’t like him anymore. He can’t let himself like her anymore. The little they built over those few days, he’s torn it all apart. It’s gone. It’s all gone. 

  
  


“No more stupid jokes?” she asks, the cold of her voice freeing his blood and his heart.

“No. No more jokes,” he shakes his head slowly - and his eyes dart to her fingers, and the keys they take out of her pocket. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you kill the animals, write the letter, steal the chicken? Did you install the cameras? Did you write on the mirror with my lipstick? Did you tamper with your toaster, did you set your own house on fire?”

  
  


She has the keys in her hand, but she’s making it clear she won’t use them if she’s unsatisfied by his answer. She wants an answer. But what answer? The only thing he wants to answer is  _ no, I didn’t do it _ . No, not quite that.  _ I didn’t fucking do it and would you fucking stop asking that kind of stupid question _ . Yes, that’s what he wants to answer. He wants to let his fury explode, maybe it’ll help with his achy stomach, he wants to smash his mug against the wall, flip the table over, pack a bag and leave and never see her again and never hear her bloody questions again. 

 

But he remembers he’s supposed to be sorry. He remembers she’s here to help. He remembers he won’t go far with one of his wrist in handcuffs. So he wills his body to relax, and discreetly blows a heavy sigh through his nose before he gives her an answer he knows won’t make him combust with rage on the spot, an answer he hopes is the kind of answers she wants.

  
  


“Looks like it,” he says with a disinterested shrug, fiddling with the chain of the handcuffs. “I would say no. I would say, I’m not mad, I would say I didn’t do any of this. I would ask, why would I even do such things? What’s the motivation behind this? But…”

“But?”

“But it looks like I did. You have clues, evidence, facts, witnesses. So what’s the point of saying  _ no _ , Rose? I could scream my innocence from the rooftops, and what good would that be? Would  _ you  _ even trust me? Would  _ you  _ believe I’m innocent?”

“Try me, Alec. Just try me. Did you do it?”

  
  


He frowns, just a bit annoyed - no,  _ very  _ annoyed - by her insistence.  _ Keep calm, Hardy _ . He takes a deep breath, anxiously brushes his fringe of hair away from his forehead because fuck it’s getting on his nerves, crosses his feet under the chair so they won’t wear the linoleum with their persistent tapping. 

  
  


“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Good.”

  
  


Finally, she unlocks the handcuff that was starting to feel too tight around his wrist, gently wraps her hand around the light red line running along his skin, caresses the soreness away. He can’t believe she’s giving him that kind of affection. Maybe it’s not all gone, then? Maybe he hasn’t ruined everything just yet? 

 

And, wait, she actually wanted him to say  _ no _ ? Is that all she wanted? She drove him barmy just to get a  _ no  _ out of his mouth? What is this, some kind of bloody test to make sure he believes in his own sanity? Fuck, he just wants to… Fuck.  _ Calm, Hardy, calm _ . He’s not angry - not that he doesn’t want to be, he’s calm, not angry, and he looks at her with some kind of anxious expectation painted over his face. And he sees it again. An he feels it again. He’s upset to see she’s tired and weary and abated.

 

She looks so very tired, small bags under eyes, makeup a bit smeared, eyelids drooping ever so slightly, closing just a fraction of a second longer than they’re supposed to when she blinks. He whole body slouches down on the chair, leans towards him like she wants him to hold her. He’s not angry. He wants to hold her. He wants to cuddle her, take her in his arms and carry her to bed, he wants to snuggle with her under the covers and hug her tight. If she’d ever let him.

 

But she clears her throat, steals a gulp or two from his mug of coffee, straightens on her chair before she can fully lean against his side. Right. They have to talk - he has a feeling she’ll do the talking, and he’d better listen.

  
  


“You didn’t do it, Alec,” she starts as she loosely clasps her hands over her knees - wait, did he hear that one right, _ he didn’t do it _ ? “Ellie and I agreed on this. You didn’t do it.”

“But the evidence, Rose, I…”

“The evidence is the reason why we don’t believe you did any of this. Look at what we have, Alec. Everything we’ve got, it points to you. There’s no logic to any of this. You’re a Detective, you, better than anyone else, knows how an investigation works. If you did it, you wouldn’t have used your car to go steal the chicken, you wouldn’t have showed your face on the bloody CCTV, you wouldn’t have searched the dark web on your computer at work.”

“Tell that to a judge,” he mutters, running his finger around the edge of his mug. “They won’t care. They’ll look at the evidence, see it all leads back to me, find me guilty.”

“That’s the point,” she says, cupping his cheek to turn his face, just so he can see the concern on her face. “The only purpose of this evidence is to make you look guilty. But you’re not. And with Ellie, we’ve decided… Well, we won’t try to find the culprit. Not yet anyway. We’ll just try to find evidence that proves you’re innocent, first. Because you are, Alec. You’re not crazy.”

“Aye, I tried to tell you that yesterday,” he grumbles - Jesus, all of this drama to reach that one conclusion that shouldn't even have been questioned? “You didn’t want to believe me. You tried to prove I was. Thanks, by the way, appreciate it.”

“If you hadn’t left in such a hurry to get pished, we could have talked,” she retorts, her fingers twitching on his cheek like she’s possessed by a sudden desire to slap his face. “Yes, I considered the possibility that something might be wrong with you, because the security was on and, sorry to say, a naked man covered in lipstick crying in the bathroom at three in the morning isn’t exactly an everyday scene. But we could have talked about it. We could have gone over what happened, we could have tried to explain a possible failure in my security system, tried to explain how he, or they, or whoever the fuck is doing this, how they got in without either of us noticing. But you left. You gave me the finger and you left. You can’t blame me, Alec. That wouldn’t be fair.”

  
  


Well. She’s right. There’s nothing he can say. What happened as he left is a bit of a blur, because he was furious, because the alcohol clouded his memories, but he remembers his rash decision to leave. He remembers she had wanted to talk, but he refused to listen to her. He was furious and confused and scared, but he has no excuse. She’s right. He can’t blame her. More than that. She deserves an apology. He promised her, he’d manage his temper and tell her about his angry feelings rather than just act upon them. He broke that promise. 

 

He laces his fingers with hers over his cheek, dares to kiss the crook of her palm, carefully tucks a strand of blond hair that’s escaped her bun behind her ear.

  
  


“I’m sorry, lass,” he says softly, relieved that she’s not pushing him away, relieved she leans into his touch. “I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry for what I said, I’m sorry for coming back here sloshed. I… I had a nightmare. Dreamt I actually did all of those horrible things. Made me a bit… Edgy. I only went to the bathroom to get some water. But then, the mirror… That was too much to take at once. I’m sorry I couldn’t cope. I’m so sorry, Rose.”

  
  


She sighs, tucks her feet under his thighs, nestles her head on his shoulder, wraps her arms around him. And he hold her, tight, against him. She remains silent, for a long time, so long he starts to think she’s fallen asleep. But then, she takes a deep breath, tries to rub the exhaustion off her face without much success. And she unwraps herself from around his body and moves her chair away from him again. Mixed signals, these are, and he starts to think his  _ sorries _ , no matter how many of them he said, weren’t enough. Of course. He was stupid to think bloody  _ sorries  _ would be enough to earn her forgiveness. What he did, what he said, he’s not even sure it can ever be forgiven.

 

It’s over. She’s gone. The hope is gone.

  
  


“Can you please lend me one of your bags?” he asks as he pushes himself up, then carefully slides the chair under the table - that’s the kind of little things that can help him hang onto his composure, sliding the chair under the table, putting his empty mug in the sink, cleaning a few spots of dried coffee from the counter with a wet sponge.

“What for?” she frowns, arms crossed over her chest, apparently confused by the request.

“I’m going to the Trader’s. I’ve lost the privilege to extend my stay here, I should be gone already. Plus, I’m the prime suspect of the case you opened today, you might be accused of protecting me, or hiding me or something. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble. I’ve done enough.”

“You’re not a suspect, Alec,” she only says, following his slow pacing around the kitchen - he only stops pacing when she says those words, and it’s his turn to frown in confusion. “Not officially. Ellie and I know you are, but we think you’re innocent. We’ve opened two cases, one about a silly chicken theft, the other about an arson. Until it gets worse, and it will, these two cases are unrelated. You’re not a suspect, you’re a victim. You didn’t resign, you just signed for an indefinite leave. We’re trying to help you, Alec. I’m trying to help you.”

“Why?”

“Because I care about you. Please, sit down.”

  
  


He hesitates, runs his fingers through his hair, takes one step towards the door, one step back. Her eyes are on him, he feels it, heavy on his shoulders, uncomfortable. He looks at her, just for a second or two. She looks miserable. Because of him. He’s made her miserable. He remembers the day they met, the day he saw her for the first time, this young woman full of life with a tendency to laugh at nothing and an almost childish joy in each of her smiles. He killed her joy. Het let her waste her kindness and happiness on him. For nothing. Because now, she doesn’t want him anymore, and he doesn’t want her anymore. He can’t. He refuses to want her, because he’s an arshole whose only redemption is shite apologies that can’t ever make him worthy enough of her or everything she’s been trying to offer. 

  
  


“I won’t ask twice,” she says, quiet, calm - but he still hears the ultimatum in those words, he still hears the resolve and the finality in those words. “Sit down, or just go. But if you go, you’re not coming back. We’re done. I’m done chasing after someone who’s constantly running away from me. I’m done trying to convince you I want you or want to help you. I’m just done. You choose, Alec. Be with me, or be alone.”

  
  


_ Alone _ . That word terrifies him. He doesn’t want to be alone, he can’t go back to being alone, he can’t imagine being alone for the rest of his pitiful life. Before he met her, he was happy to be alone, he’d come to terms with the fact he’s be alone until the day he’d die, but then he met her and he wasn’t alone any longer and he realized just how important it was  _ not  _ to be alone.  _ Please, don’t leave me alone, please _ . 

 

She still wants him, God, she’s right here, she wants him to stay, and he knows he’s being a selfish tosser because he’s going to end up hurting her, ruining her, and he doesn’t care. He just wants her. Be with her. Not alone. Never alone again.  _ Please, don’t leave me alone. _

 

He stops breathing so he won’t sob, blinks, and blinks, tries to dry the tears before they can roll down his cheeks. He sits down. Next to her. Not alone.

  
  


“Thank you,” she says, still quiet, still calm, unaware that a storm inside is making his insides twist and his heart hurt.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” he answers - Jesus, he hopes she can’t hear how much his voice struggled to get out without breaking. 

“Praised be the Lord _ , finally _ , words I wanted to hear. You took your bloody time, Hardy.”

“I’m, uh… What did I say?” he asks, completely befuddled by the smile that lights up her face - and she’s holding both his hands, now, and the anger that pulled on her features is gone, now. “Thank you?”

“Yes, you did. I thought you never would. How does it feel?”

“Rose, I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you think it’s better to be thankful rather than apologetic?”

“I don’t know, it just seems to me they’re… Different concepts,” he shrugs - he doesn’t know where she wants to go with this, but she’s here, squeezing his fingers, smiling, and he’s not about to complain.

“Let me give you an example, yeah?”

  
  


He wants to protest when she lets go of his hands, but she’s already standing at the threshold. She points a finger at him, almost accusing, then points it back at herself - fine, so she wants him to know what he’s looking at, it’s him. What the Hell is she doing? 

 

She lets herself fall against the doorframe, she slouches, and he’s tempted to rush to her and help her up. But then, she pouts, throws her head back, squints.  _ Jesus _ . He thinks he understands what she wants to do.

  
  


“I’m so sorry I pissed myself, Rose, I’m so sorry I’m pished,” she starts to whine - it’s an awful impersonation, he believes, but then he hasn’t exactly seen how he’s like when he’s drunk. “I’m sorry you have to drag me in the shower, sorry I’m such a pain in your arse. I’m  _ sorry _ .”

“I get it, Rose, please, stop, this is embarrassing,” he winces, looking away from her writhing body slowly sliding down to the floor.

“You get it, do you?”

“I was sloshed, I just…” he tries to explain, but he can’t find any good way to end that explanation so he just sighs and runs his hand down his face.

“No, no, Alec,” she shakes her head as she straightens and cuts the act short. “I mean, you were sloshed, yes, but do you realize you’re like this all the bloody time?  _ Sorry, Rose, so sorry, Rose, please forgive me, Rose _ . That’s all you can do, Alec. Apologize. That’s how you work. You feel bad about yourself, you apologize for some shit you said or did, think a bloody  _ sorry  _ it’s going to fix everything like it’s a magic word or something. Well it’s not. You want to know what I wished you’d said to me this morning?”

“Rose, I don’t…”

“I wish you’d told me, _ thank you for taking care of me, Rose _ .  _ Thank you for helping me up the stairs, Rose, thank you for putting me to bed, Rose _ . But that’s your problem, Alec. You can’t be thankful because you don’t think you deserve any of it. You just can’t accept some people want to help you, you just can’t accept some people care about you.”

“Rose…”

“Saying  _ sorry  _ doesn’t make everything right, Alec,” she says, coming back to sit on her chair, taking his hands again. “It doesn’t make you any less responsible for your mistakes.  _ Sorry  _ sucks. It means you blame yourself for your actions, and it doesn’t make other people feel that great either. You tell me  _ sorry _ , I’ll just feel pity for you, I’ll just feel compelled to forgive you, even when you don’t deserve it, because that’s who I am. But you tell me  _ thank you _ , and I’ll just be glad.  _ Thank you _ means you’re grateful for what I’m giving you, it means you accept, and it makes me happy I’m giving it to you. A  _ thank you _ , coming from you, that’s worth a thousand of your stupid  _ sorries _ . I don’t care if you’re sorry, because what you’re sorry for, it’s all on you. Half of your  _ sorries  _ could have been avoided if you’d just told me  _ thanks  _ when I offered my help and you'd actually taken it. I wish you’d get that.”

  
  


Now he really gets it. He should probably be ashamed he’s been taught a life lesson by a woman that’s just over fifteen years younger than he is - and, to be honest, it’s the kind of lessons he hates, too much sappy philosophy and intentions. But she’s right. He doesn’t agree with all of it, he doesn’t think apologies are that bad. But she’s still right. She wants to help him. She cares about him. It’s different, to look at things from her perspective. He’s good at saying sorry, but he’s not so sure he’d be as good at being on the receiving end of an apology. He thinks he understands how she feels. 

 

Everything she’s done for him, and he never really thanked her. And somehow, she’s still here. With him. If he can’t show he’s grateful now, he won’t ever be able to show it.

 

So, het lets go of her hands, only to draw her into a tight hug. He closes his eyes, enjoys how her arms wrap around his shoulders, how warm she is, how solid, how real. His nose against her neck, he smells the strawberry he loves, his cheek against her own, he feels the softness of her skin. Why would he ever want to run away from that? He came so close, so very close to losing her. Never again.

  
  


“Thank you for giving me another chance,” he whispers - and yes, it does feel much better to be grateful for what’s right, not apologetic for what’s wrong. 

“See, ‘s not that bad, is it?” she answers - he feels the smile in the way her cheek tenses against his, just before she gently pushes him away “Now, just so we’re clear. What happened last night, and this morning, the way you talked to me, and what you did? It’s not happening again. If it does, it’s a slap in your face and my foot in your arse, no more chances. Understood?”

“Aye, understood.”

“Good. Let’s start over, clean slate and all, and pretend I just got home, okay?”

“Uh, sure,” he shrugs, a bit dismayed - she has such a talent to switch from a dramatic to a light mood with just a smile, and that’s something he’ll never understand. 

“Wonderful, then please order pizza while I have a shower, get me a beer and turn on the telly. I had a shite day and I just want you and my couch tonight. Thanks.”

  
  


She kisses him, a proper snog he didn’t expect so soon, and then she’s gone. He releases a long, shaky breath - relief or something else, he’s not sure - and he reaches for the phone she’s left on the table.

  
  


“You’re welcome, love,” he says softly as he dials the number of the restaurant. 

 

* * *

 


	24. Nabwi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: NSFW

* * *

 

 

By the time she’s out of the shower, he’s got everything ready. The telly’s on, the pizzas are ordered, the beers are opened, the curtains are closed, the pillows are fluffed up on the couch. He hopes she’s not the kind of woman who never misses an episode of EastEnders - then again, if she is, he can’t complain. He hopes he didn’t get her order wrong - he tried to remember what she got two days ago, he’s sure about the olives and the pepperoni, much less so about the goat cheese. He hopes he didn’t get his own order wrong - it’s still hard to figure out what his stomach can withstand at this point, so he just went full cheese. He hopes none of this is a dream.

 

Because it certainly feels like a dream. Just the fact that he’s sitting here, in her couch, in her living-room, at this point, it feels like a dream. He hasn’t known her for long, when he thinks about it. Just a few days. He’s not the kind of man who does this. He’s not the kind of man who’s willing to share a house, a life with woman after just a few days. But the circumstances are… Different. He’s not exactly the kind of man who falls so hard and so fast for a woman. He’s not the kind of man who has to deal with so many emotions at once. Maybe these two things go together. Maybe if his life hadn’t taken such a sharp and shite turn, he wouldn’t want to live with her.

 

Ah. Who is he kidding. Rose is perfect. It’s so hard to believe, but he’s found a perfect woman. Young, kind, beautiful, bold, fierce. Perfect. He’d still want to live with her, at some point, even if he still had a house, a home. He thinks. He knows he likes her. A lot. A whole lot. Rose. Rose Tyler. The woman who likes him, the woman who accepts him. Despite everything, the woman who forgave him. 

 

The conversation they’ve had, it was a tough one. Probably one of the worst conversations he’s ever had - the hours spent debating the conditions of his divorce with this stupid attorney who robbed him of his house and his daughter included. But at least, he got something good out of it. Several good things, even. Another chance with Rose - and he’s now determined to make the most of that chance, because he knows there won’t be another one. They’ve also determined he’s not a loony - that’s not just good, that’s fucking brilliant, because now he can stop doubting his sanity and pretend he never believed, nor for a second, that something might be wrong with his head. And they’ve determined he’s not a suspect - well, technically, he is, but as long as Rose doesn’t believe he is, that’s what matters. Oh yes, and Rose, she’s given him another chance. 

 

It’s that one reason that makes his lips twitch into a smile and his heart beat faster in his chest. One more chance. The last one. Not that he would need any more, because that last chance is all he needs to tell her, show her, prove to her he can be better. Not just better for her, but better for them both. Oh, he knows he’ll never be perfect, _ they _ ’ll never be perfect - she’s a fiery woman, his lass, and he’s a walking stick of dynamite, there’s bound to be some explosions every now and then. He doesn’t want perfect anyway. Perfect is boring. 

 

He hears the door of the bathroom open, and he plops down on the couch to wait for her, wriggles on the seat until his back is comfortably nestled into the cushion. He hasn’t spent that much time in this living-room, he’s not yet used to the furniture that belongs in the previous century, he still can’t look at that horrible wallpaper and its big, pale purple flowers without grimacing. But it starts to feel a bit like home. It’s a nice house. Too old, too big for two, too close to the edge of the cliff. 

 

But it’s quiet. Far away from everything, no neighbours for miles. He hates the beach, hates the sand and the salty mist of the sea breaking against the shore. But he has to admit, the panoramic view from the window pane on the seaside, with the rocks that glow orange when the sun sets and the ribbon of pebbles that stretches along the line of sea froth, it’s not a bad view. Better than the pool of mud he used to see from his own window when the tide was low. And when they’ve traded the old furniture for the one she’s bought, changed the wallpapers and redecorated, it won’t be as… Impersonal. For now, it’s just a house, more than a home. But soon. Soon, it’ll be a home.  _ Their  _ home. If she still wants to share after spending a few days with him, that is.

 

He hears her climb down the stairs, and his eyes travel from the telly to her. He should have kept watching the telly. Or not. He doesn’t know. Is it too soon to comment on how beautiful she looks? And not only beautiful, but sexy as Hell and  _ cute _ . These are words that shouldn’t work together, but somehow, these are the words he would use to describe what he’s seeing. Her wet blond hair tied into a bun that’s both messy and artful, it’s sexy, but the way she pouts as she tries to pat a wild strand that won’t fall the way she wants it to, it’s cute. 

 

Her pyjamas are cute, too. A plain white tank top with a little cat embroidered on the bottom, and her shorts patterned with the same cartoonish cats - the same ones she wore when she spent the night at his place. It’s really cute. But then, she makes her way towards him, and it’s not as cute any longer. He sees it. The tank top is made of light cotton, and it’s see-through enough to notice she didn’t bother with a bra. He shouldn’t stare, but he does. The almost imperceptible bounce of her naked breasts as she walks, the slightly colder air in the room that defines her nipples under the fabric. Jesus. And she’s not wearing anything under her shorts, either - if she did, he wouldn’t be able to see as much curves and skin, would he?

  
  


“All set, then?” he asks after he clears his throat and redirects his thoughts to safer territories.

“Nothing like a hot shower to wash the stress off,” she smiles, slouching down on the couch.

  
  


He wants to agree, but then she lies down, feet propped up on the armrest, head on his lap. Not that he minds, but to have her face inches from his crotch, a great bird’s eye view on her breasts ready to spill out from her top, it doesn’t exactly help keep his thoughts where he wants to keep them. But no. It’s probably too soon. He doesn’t want her to think he’s only interested because of her beautiful physique. Oh yes, she looks beautiful like that, and not only like that, she’s always beautiful. That she’s here, that she’s close, this is what matters. 

 

He smiles at the way she sighs when he caresses her cheek with his fingertips, at the way she rolls on her side and gathers her leg, bundling closer to him.

  
  


“Don’t fall asleep, sweetheart,” he says softly, running the palm of his hand in large but tender circles over the swell of her bum. “The food will be here, soon. They said forty-five minutes.”

“‘M not falling asleep, I’m trying to relax,” she mumbles, clutching his jumper between her fingers.

“I could help you relax, if you want.”

“You, sir, are a filthy man,” she giggles - and he has to admit, the way he said those words might lead to that kind of misinterpretation. 

“I didn’t mean sex, sweetheart, I meant I could give you a massage,” he corrects her with a playful poke of his fingers into her hip. “I learnt how to do it a few years back. I’m quite good at it.”

“You’re full of surprises, you are. Fine, let’s give it a try. Just don’t be upset if I don’t like it, ‘kay?”

“I won’t. Straddle me.”

“And you don’t mean sex, right?” she chuckles, pushing herself up.

  
  


And she does straddle him, but the wrong way around. Well, it’s kind of a right way, because she’s facing him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body flush against his, and then she’s giving him a kiss. Just a tentative kiss, at first, but within mere seconds it evolves into a deeper one, and he remembers the velvet of her tongue, the warmth of her lips, the softness of her cheek against his nose. He brings her even closer, one arm tight around her waist, one hand light on the side of her neck. He loves her hands in his hair, he loves the weight of her body on his lap, he loves the little sounds she makes somewhere low in her throat. He loves to let her set the pace, he loves to let her be in control. He loves that she started it and he loves that she doesn’t want to end it. He remembers he loves kissing her. But he doesn’t forget what he’s offered. 

 

He takes his sweet time to break the kiss, because he doesn’t really want it to end. But he does end it, going from full snog to tender kisses and nips on her lips, from kisses and nips on her lips to soft pecks on her chin, her cheek, her nose.

  
  


“It would make it easier if your turned around, sweetheart,” he smiles at her disappointed pout, brushing the pad of his thumbs around her round and slightly reddened cheekbones.

“Right,” she nods with a cute sheepish chuckle - and then she does turn around, graceful and elegant, and she’s sitting on his lap, legs framing his thighs. “Should I take my top off?”

“You don’t have to. Wouldn’t want you to get cold. I’ll just…”

  
  


He carefully lifts the straps of her tank top and slides them down her arms, just so her shoulders are bare. He knows, just as she does, that the cold is a poor excuse - she wouldn’t get any colder without this flimsy top that does nothing to keep her warm - but at least, if she keeps it on, he won’t be tempted to believe the massage could just be foreplay in disguise. It’s just a massage, to help her relax. And he’s perfectly happy sharing that kind of moment with her. 

 

He brings his hands to her shoulders, hoping he hasn’t forgotten how to do this. He learnt a few techniques years ago, at the time his ex-wife was pregnant with their daughter. Tess would insist he came along on all those antenatal classes, and while he hadn’t seen the point of learning how to breathe through labour, he had been rather diligent and focussed when it came to massage techniques. Of course, he had never told her he learnt all of that for his own benefit more than hers - a stressed out and tensed pregnant Tess came closer to being a nagging and huffy harpy than a wife, and he wouldn’t have survived through the first three months of her pregnancy without these techniques. 

 

He starts to knead the taut muscles under her skin, presses his fingertips hard into the knots, rubs his palms over the pleats, smoothes, caresses. She seems to enjoy it, if the quiet mewls that comes out of her mouth and the way she leans back into his touch are any indications. His hands glide over her, fingers drag down the edges of her spine, go back up, thumbs draw half-moon shapes on the nape of her neck.

  
  


“You’re so good at this,” she breathes out, finding purchase on his knees to arch the small of her back and lean further into his hands. “Feels really nice.”

“I could do your whole back when we’re in bed, if you want,” he smiles, just happy that he can do something for her in return for everything she’s done for him. “Could do your feet, too. Basically your whole body, actually, but I think you women particularly like foot massages.”

“I’m so ticklish, I’d just end up kicking your face and breaking your nose. Sorry to disappoint, it seems I’m not most women.”

“‘M not disappointed. Thank you for telling me, my nose is weird enough as it is, I wouldn’t want to make it worse. Though if I can’t do your feet, I’ll have to find something else to massage. Can’t let the magic of my fingers go to waste.”

“Well, I’d have a few suggestions if you’re so keen on massaging me.”

  
  


Oh, maybe it’s not too soon, then. His teasing wasn’t without purpose, obviously, but he didn’t expect her to answer something so forward. Still, he’s not sure he should. Not that sex with this beautiful nymph is something he would ever refuse, but he’s just scared she’s going to think he’s only in this for some legs in the air parties - which is definitely not what he’s after. Then again, if she’s the one asking…

  
  


“What would you like me to massage?” he asks, brushing his nose against the nape of her slender neck, lips finding the smooth hill of her prominent vertebrae. “I’m open to suggestions. Whatever can help you relax, sweetheart.”

“I just… Nevermind, darling. This is perfect.”

  
  


He hears it in her voice, the reticence to voice her desire, and maybe just a bit of embarrassment - he’s sure he’d see the blush on her cheeks and her teeth biting into her lip if he could look at her face. Like she’s shy and ashamed. Like she shares the exact same thought he has - _ what if he thinks I only want him for the sex _ , she might be wondering. But that’s not what he thinks. 

 

What he thinks, it’s just how lucky he is to have such a woman desire him. And he knows that if she only wanted him for the sex, he wouldn’t be here. She could seduce any man she wants, she could find friends and lovers in just a few hours spent at the pub, find one-night stands and long-term boyfriends in just the snap of a finger. And somehow, he’s here. She wants him here. He has to believe it’s because he has more to offer than his cock and fingers. He has to believe he means more to her than a fuck-buddy. He has to believe there’s more to their relationship than just good -  _ bloody fantastic _ \- sex. 

 

He said it before. Whatever Rose wants, Rose gets. And if she wants that kind of relaxation, she gets that kind of relaxation.

 

His hands stop massaging her neck, instead, they caress her shoulders, her arms. From this close, he sees the thin hair on her neck rise, and he feels the goosebumps that make her skin slightly less smooth. He nestles his chin in the crook of her shoulder, his stubbled cheek meeting her own. And his hands, they slip under her arms to cup her round breasts.

  
  


“Is this what you want, sweetheart?” he asks, almost a whisper, keeping his hands still until she makes her approval clear. 

“Alec, I don’t…” she starts with a small shake of her head - though the way she juts out her chest just so and her fingers claw at his knees prove she does want it, she still seems reluctant.

“I’’d be happy to give it to you, Rose. Do you want this? Do you want me to touch you?”

“Darling, I just… I… Yes. Please.”

“You’ll have to relax a bit, lass,” he chuckles, though without any mockery - he just feels it, how she’s even more tense than before the massage, and that’s not exactly the point, is it? “Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, shall we?”

  
  


He shuffles his bum closer to the edge of the seat, pulls the coffee table towards them so he can prop his feet up, helps her find her position against him. She’s sitting over his lap, back flushed against his chest, her own feet propped up on each side of his. He’s half-seated, half-sprawled on the couch, not exactly comfortable, but he knows she is and that was the point. Rose first. Always Rose first. 

 

His hands find their way back to her breasts, still covered by the thin pyjama tank top - thin enough to feel her nipples are still hardened into small peaks begging for attention. He just fondles the soft mounds of flesh for a moment, gently, as he presses tender kisses on her shoulder, her neck, her jaw. Until she’s finally relaxing in his arms and sighing, quiet sighs, quiet murmurs of words he can’t understand. His fingers hook into the edge of the top, pull it over her breasts, and he doesn’t miss the shiver that courses through her whole body.

  
  


“Are you cold, sweetheart?” he asks, just a bit concerned by her reaction he’s not sure only emanates from his ministrations.

“Just a bit, but I’m fine,” she shrugs - but she shivers again, and she unconsciously wraps her arms around herself.

  
  


It doesn’t take more than that, and it’s just a moment before he slips his jumper over her head and throws a plaid quilt over their legs. There, that’s better. Now he can make her shiver for all the good reasons. His hands snake under the jumper, find her breasts again - and, oh, he loves those breasts, not big, not small, round and soft and fitting almost perfectly in his palms. She whimpers when he pinches her nipples, groans when he barely brushes the hard tips with the pad of his thumbs. He likes that she’s responsive to that kind of touch. He likes that she’s responsive to  _ his  _ touch. 

 

He whispers praises to her, catches her lobe between his teeth, licks the edge of her ear with the tip of his tongue. He wishes he could see her face, wishes he could use his mouth rather than his fingers, wishes he had more than two hands to touch her everywhere at once. But he’s only got two hands, his mouth is busy on the side of her neck, and the only view of her beautiful face, he only sees when she lets her head fall on his shoulder and twist her neck to kiss his jaw. And that’s enough.

 

He keeps teasing her with careful pinches and caresses, until she starts to shift her hips over his lap and the sounds she makes grow more insistent. Somehow, it’s the sounds she makes rather than the roll of her hips that makes him harden in the confines of his jeans. His only solace is, he’s not fully hard, and he won’t be, because this time he’s only eager to help her  _ relax _ . He won’t allow himself to be lured off tracks, not like the day before. This time, it’s about her, her and only her.

 

His fingertips draw random paths down her flat stomach that’s pulled taut, and he feels her tense in his arms, just as his index slips under the elastic of her shorts - he was right, there’s nothing else but the shorts.

  
  


“Relax, sweetheart,” he croons against her neck, holding her closer, spreading his legs a little so she’s almost lying on top of him. “Close your eyes, breathe.”

“‘M not crushing you, am I?” she asks, craning her neck to look at him with eyes he sees are full of desire, but a bit overshadowed with worry.

“Of course you’re not, lass. Let me hold you, aye? Just relax, make yourself comfortable. And  _ feel _ , sweetheart. Let me care about you. I’m here, I’m holding you, I’m not letting go. Trust me.  _ Relax _ .”

  
  


It takes a moment of his hands caressing her arms, her hips, her stomach, her breasts, tender and gentle touches, of his lips kissing her neck, her shoulders, her cheeks, of his arms and legs around her, rocking her, hugging her, just a moment, a minute or two, before she finally lets herself go. He feels her weight go slack against his chest, her head fall on his shoulder, he hears her quiet sigh. She’s ready to let him care.

 

One hand finds its way back to the waistband of her shorts, while his other keeps teasing a nipple, soft brushes and careful pinches, just enough for the sweet melody of her moans to start again. He doesn’t quite touch her yet, only cups her hot flesh as he suckles that soft patch of skin at the juncture of her neck. Her hair, still a bit wet from the shower, gives her skin a smell of peach, so different from the strawberry he’s come to love, but just as delicious. She’s delicious. She shivers again, but this time he knows it’s not because she’s cold. She shifts her hips, cants them ever so slightly, breathes out a  _ please  _ that makes his lips stir into a smile against her skin. What Rose wants, Rose gets.

 

He dips the tip of his middle finger between her folds, and he answers her moan with one of his own when he feels the wet heat coating her flesh. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to the feeling. To know this beautiful woman wants him. To know this beautiful woman desires him.  _ Jesus _ . She arches her back to seek more of his fingers, it makes her pert bum press down on his crotch, and, fuck, his cock swells against the zip of his jeans. But no, Rose, Rose first, only Rose. 

 

He slides his finger inside to gather more of her warm wetness, slides it up through her folds. He uses his thumb to pull back the hood of her clit, brushes his moist fingertip in slow, light circles over the nub. He wants to take his time, build her arousal slowly, enjoy every little sound she makes and every little twitch of muscles that shakes her body, enjoy that he’s the one pulling those reactions out of her. But her hips are already moving on their own, one of her hand clutching the hair at the back of his head, her voice louder, groans and whimpers and mewls. Could she be close already?

  
  


“Kiss me, please?” she asks between sighs of pleasure, turning her head to look at him.

  
  


Her cheeks are flushed, a deep red, her eyelids are heavy, drooping over her beautiful whiskey orbs, her mouth parted to let out her ragged breath. He doesn’t know why she says  _ please _ . Kissing her, that’s all he wants to do. The position isn’t ideal to snog her the way he’d like to, the slant of their mouths is a little awkward, but it doesn’t stop their lips and their tongues from meeting. Even better, it means he can’t snog her. He can only kiss her. Just like she wants.

 

It’s a bit sloppy, she, too lost in the fog of her pleasure, he, too focussed on what his hands are doing, but there’s something unfathomable about it that makes it perfect. Maybe it’s because it can’t be too deep, and they have to keep it tender. Maybe it’s because it can’t be too fast, and they have to keep it slow. Maybe it can’t be anything else than perfect, because it’s them. But it’s perfect. He thinks it’s perfect.

 

And as he kisses her, sighs his affection and swallows her breaths of delectation, two fingers are now rubbing her clit, two fingers are now pinching her nipples, with a bit more urgency, with a bit more need. He both loves and hates that she’s writhing over his lap, rutting her hips, a steady and persistent back and forth over his crotch that makes it all the more difficult to forget about the erection straining against his trousers. But he promised. This is about her.

  
  


“You’re beautiful, my Rose,” he growls between nips on her lower lip, keeping his eyes open to stare at the way her eyelids flutter shut, “Gorgeous. Tell me. What do you need?”

“More,” she gasps as her nails scrape over his stubble, an arm tightens around his neck. “More of you. Please, Alec, more.”

  
  


His arousal makes it hard not to think of  _ more  _ as his jeans down to his knees and his cock deep in her velvet heat - a thought that sends a spike of desire through his loins and makes the front of his boxers uncomfortably damp with precum. But he promised.

 

He slips an arm under her thigh, pushes the shorts out of the way, slides his index into her heat, adds his middle finger, pumps them slowly, in, out, listening to the sounds she makes to understand what she likes the most. There. Found it. He accompanies the tease of his fingers on this newly discovered spot with the tease of his thumb over her clit. It’s not a perfect rhythm, he struggles too much to split his brain in two and focus on both his hands at the same time, but she doesn’t seem to mind. 

 

It’s not long before she’s squirming in his arms, rutting her hips and clawing at whatever part of his shoulders, neck and face she can get her fingers on.  _ Alec _ , she gasps,  _ Rose _ , he murmurs. He scrapes his teeth down the side of her neck, bites into her skin, just hard enough to pull another moan from her lips.

  
  


“God, Alec, I’m, I’m…” she pants, her hand pressing down hard over his, guiding his fingers, harder and faster rubs over her clit. 

“ _ Coming _ ,” he finishes for her in a whisper that lets his smile transpire through, curling his fingers a bit more roughly on their way out.

  
  


He whole body goes rigid against him, her nails rake the back of his hand and leave red tracks all over his skin, his name gets lost on the tip of her tongue. He holds her close, a tight hug, gathering her quivering frame into the comfort of his arms - and he’s happy she lets him. He feels it, that she’s definitely more relaxed, now, and he feels it, that the weight of the day on her shoulders is gone. She’s fine. They’re fine.

 

He doesn’t want to leave this position for the rest of the evening, he’s just happy to cuddle with her on the couch under the warmth of the quilt, he’s just happy to survive on the soft kisses and caresses they share until they decide to call it a day. It feels wonderful. It’s wonderful.

 

But the doorbell rings between the few words of affection they murmur into each other’s ears, and he sighs in frustration. Right. Pizza being delivered, that’s one way to ruin the mood. He entangles their arms and legs, wraps the quilt around her and presses a kiss on the crown of her head.

  
  


“Be right back, sweetheart,” he tells her, planting another kiss on her hand that’s holding his.

“Alec, you might want to, um, readjust yourself before you open the door,” she grins as a light blush colours her cheeks - he follows her eyes, down to his groin, and he’s just a bit abashed to find his erection hasn’t fully died down yet and is made rather obvious by the tight jeans. “Unless you want me to go.”

“Wearing that transparent top and that scrap of fabric you call shorts? No way. Not letting a pizza delivery boy enjoy  _ my  _ show.”

“Possessive macho.”

“It was in the contract, you should have read the little lines before you signed, sweetheart.”

“I wrote the contract, wanker,” she giggles, throwing a cushion at him as he makes his way to the door. “Nowhere does it stipulate I have to put up with your caveman shit.”

“Nowhere does it stipulates you have to put up with me, period. And yet here I am, lass.”

“Save the poetic schmaltz for later and just get me my pizza, will you?”

  
  


He opens the front door, the smile on his lips refusing to vanish, and sure enough, the delivery man is here. Boy or man, he can’t figure out, because he’s still wearing his helmet with the smoked shield down, obviously in a hurry to get back on his scooter.

  
  


“You paid over the phone, right?” his muffled voice says as he hands him two boxes. 

“I didn’t, no,” he answers, still smiling, reaching for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on me, darling. Tell your bonnie lass Adedayo says hi.”

  
  


Before he can understand the words, that man is over him, a gun is pressed on the underside of his chin and a hand is grabbing his crotch. He’s not smiling any longer.

  
  


“Lovely cock, by the way, darling. Getting hard just thinking about it. Wish you’d fuck me real good with it instead of wasting your moves on that heartless bitch. You think she likes you, don’t you? You think she’s fucking you and sucking you off because she likes it? Well think twice, loverboy. Remember, if she’s good at something, it’s getting what she wants. You don’t know her. You have no idea who she is.”

“And who the fuck are  _ you _ ?” he struggles to ask between clenched teeth, the hard push of the barrel making it impossible to open his mouth. 

“Just the pizza delivery boy, Mister Hardy. Isn’t that what you ordered? You’d better go back inside before they get cold. Have a nice evening, darling. Call me for a shag, one of these days.”

  
  


He wants to stop him, wants to catch up to him as he steps back towards his scooter, but the gun still pointed at his face is a pretty good incentive not to try anything reckless. Barefeet, heart ready to burst because he hasn’t taken his pills in two days and the pacemaker can’t work fast enough to tame its raging beat, unarmed. What can he do? He’s petrified. He’s face to face with the man who’s trying to frame him up, who’s responsible for all the shit that’s been happening. And he’s petrified. 

 

He can only watch. Watch, as this tall, lanky man he knows must look like him under the helmet gets back on his scooter, makes the engine roar, gives him a quick wave of the hand, and takes off. He can just stand there, watch the scooter and its lights disappear behind the slope of the hill.

 

He jumps when her arm wraps around his waist and her body leans into his.

  
  


“Alec?” she asks, and he can’t miss the concern laced through her voice, the worry in the way she cups his cheek. “Are you alright? Did anything happen?”

  
  


He looks at her, and while he hates to remember those words and hates to even consider that man might be right, he remembers.  _ You have no idea who she is. _

  
  


“Adedayo,” he simply tells her - and that name alone is enough for her face to blanch and her eyes to widen in surprise, or fear, or incomprehension, or anger, he doesn’t know, but it’s obvious she knows that name.

“Where did you hear that? Alec, how the fuck do you know about that name?”

  
  


He swallows hard, thinks of a good way to explain what’s just happened, looks down at the pizza boxes he’s holding against his chest. That’s when he sees it. A pale brown triangle of paper that sticks out from under the boxes. He carefully pulls on it, little by little, and he ends up holding a manila envelope - the same kind of envelope he found in his boot.

  
  


“I think that one might be yours,” he says as if it’s nothing more than a piece of junk mail he’d just got from the letterbox. “Open it.”

  
  


Her fingers are nervously trembling as she lifts the seal flap, her face a picture of dread and horror. She pulls out a single sheet of light brown paper, just like the one he received. He can’t read what’s written on it, because it’s too dark, but he sees it’s a single word - not the same kind of enigmatic message he got. And he sees the self-inking stamp under the word, a funny little stamp that he thinks represents a hen and four little chicks. It’s definitely hers.

  
  


“What’s your message, then?” he asks - he puts down the boxes that bother him, because there’s no way he’s going to eat what’s in either of these boxes anyway, and at least it allows him to take the hand she’s desperate to give him. “Rose, what’s the word?”

  
  


She looks at him, back at the word, back at him again, eyes full of unshed tears, teeth biting down hard on her lower lip, nostrils flaring each time she takes sharp intakes of air so she won’t let sobs out. She puts the letter back in its envelope with some kind of calm and composure he didn’t expect given her reaction, carefully folds the seal back, smoothes the manila paper with her palm. 

 

Then she turns around, and go back in. Before he can ask again and let his impatience and worry known, he hears it. The word. The word she whispers, so quiet it almost gets lost under the sound of the drawer she pulls open and the rustling of paper as she puts the envelope in and closes the drawer again. He hears it, he hears how that word seems to terrify her. He doesn’t understand it, but he knows she does.

  
  


“Nabwi.”

 

* * *

 


	25. Interrogation

* * *

 

 

“Rose, you should get out, now.”

  
  


He’s never been a patient man. Of course, he’s made an exception. When she had disappeared in the bathroom, slammed the door to his face and threatened to kick him out of her house, he realized it wasn’t the most opportune moment to make his impatience known. He understands. It rather pains him to hear her cries behind the door, the sniffs and the whimpers, but he understands. She needs to be alone. He still doesn’t understand what the message means, who that Adedayo person might be, how these two new elements relate to her or the whole shitstorm that’s blowing their lives upside down. He doesn’t know who the pizza delivery bloke is, where he comes from, or even what it is he wants from them.

 

He’s never been a patient man. Except with victims. Because he’s been a victim himself for the better part of his life - victim of his wife, his health, his bad luck - he knows what it’s like. He’s groped his way out of misery too many times, and no one’s ever been there to hold out a hand. No friends. No close family around. Insufferable lawyers, arrogant doctors and presumptuous bosses, these were the only people who pretended to help him.

 

_ I’ll help you get something out of the divorce procedure, Mister Hardy. _ Seven months of trials and neverending meetings later, he lost his wife, his house, his money. His daughter.  _ I’ll help you get better, Mister Hardy _ . Two years of pain, a dozen of arrhythmia crises and a heart attack later, he had to go under the knife.  _ I’ll help you find a better position, Detective Hardy _ . Three months of sending out CVs and cover letters to reputable stations located North of England and Scotland later, he had to pack a bag and move to fucking Borechurch, Dorset. 

 

He’s never been a heart-on-the-sleeve man. Except with victims. When he tells them he’s going to help, he means it. Not because it’s his job, not because he’s looking for some kind of overrated redemption or gratitude. He only helps because he refuses to be the kind of person who makes grand promises and never delivers. Because he refuses to be the kind of bastard cop who just wants to appear on the wall of fame,  _ look at me, so many cases solved and criminals caught _ . He doesn’t care about the criminals. He cares about the people these poor excuses for human beings drag through Hell and back.

 

That’s why, now more than ever, he cares. Rose, in that moment, she’s a victim. And he wants to help. Little chance of that happening if she keeps the door locked.

  
  


“Sweetheart, come out, please,” he asks again, just loud enough to be heard through the door, not loud enough to sound angry or annoyed. “I made some dinner. You need to eat something, you must be hungry.. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but please come out, now.”

“You made bloody dinner?” she shouts - he hears a clatter, a sordid chuckle after that, and he’s suddenly very scared to find out what’s happening behind that door. “You, you made dinner after… You made bloody  _ dinner _ ?”

“I just shoved some fries and fish fingers in the oven. Come out, Rose, it’s no use locking yourself up in there.”

“No use? Really? So what, I’m gonna come out so you can keep driving me barmy, so you can keep torturing me? If I don’t come out, you’re gonna put an axe through that door like that psychopath in  _ The Shining _ ?”

“What the Hell are you on about again, Rose?” he growls - too late not to sound angry, but these renewed accusations are somehow irritating, and his ears are ringing and his heart doing a funny off-beat dance. “What happened to  _ I’m not a suspect _ ? What happened to  _ I’m not a psycho _ ?”

“I called the bloody pizza joint, Hardy!”, a yell followed by a loud bang on the door - maybe she punched it, maybe she threw something at it, he can’t be sure. “And you know what? The pizza bloke’s worked there for more than ten years, never had one problem, he confirmed he came here to deliver the pizzas, took the cash and just left, and his boss confirmed the bloke was gone less than ten minutes, about the time it would take for a fucking pizza delivery to my door!”

“So what, you’re calling me a bloody liar?” he shouts - he’s not just angry, now, he’s furious, a white-hot rage that makes him slam his fists against the door. “Open the fucking door, Rose. Open it. Open it and bloody talk to me. I swear I’m kicking it down if you don’t open it.”

  
  


The lock clicks, the door is yanked open, and barely a second later his back meets the wall, hard and painful, his throat is squeezed, tight. Both his hands grab her wrist, try to peel her fingers away from his neck, try to push her away. She’s strong, Rose. The jumper she’s wearing, his jumper, makes her look so small, so tiny, so thin, so fragile. But she’s not. She’s all muscles. She’s carved out of strength. He can’t compete. And even if he had an equivalent strength, he knows he’d still loose. Because she has that one, very significant advantage that she’s learnt how to use that strength. It’s not brute force she’s using. It’s clever techniques and precise movements that barely use any energy. He could try to fight her off for hours and she wouldn’t break a sweat. He could be bloody Hulk and she would still find a way to bring him down to his knees. He thinks she could kill him. Can. Would. Or is it  _ will _ ? 

  
  


“Let me go,” he seethes between clenched teeth, his throat sore and his voice a weak stream of air that gives shape to his words. 

  
  


Her grip tightens. He feels the heat burning his cheeks, feels the veins swelling under the skin of his temples, starts to see her through a blurred lense of tears, starts to see little dots of flickering light. His hands fall back to his sides, limp, lifeless. There’s nothing he can do any longer. Nothing but listen to his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, an irregular drum, fast, slow, loud, dull. Like his pacemaker can’t figure out what’s happening, and is panicking just as much as he is. Will she actually kill him?

  
  


“Rose,” he says - tries to say, his tongue and mouth move but no sound comes out, not enough air left.

“You shut up and you listen to me, now,” she hisses, letting go of his throat - thank Saint Andrew - only to cinch his cheeks between her fingers. “Everyone who knew about Adedayo or Nabwi is  _ dead _ . How did you know about these names?”

“Fished a file covered in glitter out of my arse, intrigued me, looked inside,’” he grins, but it’s not a happy grin, more like a hateful one - he’s almost glad his throat is still sore and gives his voice a rough edge.

“Trust me, you don’t want to do that right now, Hardy. How did you know?”

“I  _ didn’t _ , for Heaven’s sake!”

“Fine. Move.”

  
  


He gasps in pain when she grabs him by the back of his neck and shoves him towards the stairs. Fine. He’s moving. Out of this house, away from her, out of this town, away from all this bloody nightmare. She said he wasn’t a suspect, she said he was innocent, and now… Now he’s neither a suspect or innocent. He’s just guilty. He regrets not trying to stop the bastard, he regrets not taking a picture, he regrets not calling her so she could see what happened. Had he done any of this, he would have proof he’s not mad, not guilty, not a fucking calligraphist who writes pretty letters, not a fucking animal thief  _ slash  _ killer. It doesn’t matter, now. 

 

He reaches the bottom of the stairs, sees the front door, starts to walk towards it. Out, he just needs to be out.

  
  


“Where do you think you’re going?” she barks, slapping the back of his head like he’s some kind of kid who needs scolding. “Kitchen. Sit down.”

  
  


He could always try to run, but his heart is still a bit confused by the rush of emotions and the lack of oxygen. He has a feeling she’d be tackling him down before he could take a single step, anyway. He’s tired. Exhausted. Sick of this infernal rollercoaster he’s been riding for the past few days, scared that it’s never going to end, terrified it’s going to crash. But he’s exhausted. He’s lost the will to fight. He can’t prove anything. There’s nothing he can do or say. Just sit down at the table and answer her questions. Who knows. Maybe she’s just teasing him again. That seems to be her thing, asking questions when she already knows the answer. He doesn’t like it. But if that’s what she wants, he’ll gladly answer her questions.

 

She sits opposite him, crosses her hands on the -  _ horrible  _ \- vinyl tablecloth, leans back in her chair. It’s obvious he’s not talking to Rose any longer. He sees it in her eyes, on her face, in her behaviour. He’s talking -  _ answering  _ \- to CDI Tyler. He can’t believe no more than an hour ago, he had his hand in her shorts and his lips on her neck. He’s going to miss that. No, not that. Her. He’s going to miss her. When he thinks about it, the fact that they had several relationship-threatening arguments over five little days should have made it obvious. They’re not meant to be together. It would have never worked.

  
  


“Have you ever worked with the MIs?” she asks - Jesus, if this is the face secret agents pull when they interrogate suspects, they must get all the answers they need in record time. It’s scary.

“No,” he answers with a shrug, trying to be calm and composed when inside he’s a mess.

“Lie.”

“I have never worked with or for the MIs,” he repeats - it’s hard to put a lot of conviction in that kind of answer, an answer that should be obvious to the both of them.

“Five years ago,” she says in that horrible matter-of-fact know-it-all tone that reminds him of his ex-wife. “You followed a training course in London under the supervision of six MI6 agents. It lasted two weeks, during which you were taught how to track down drug lords and uncover distribution networks. All your movements were accounted for, except for three hours when you went under the radar, on the second Tuesday. Can you tell me what you did during those three hours?”

“No.”

  
  


He wants to say he didn’t even remember about this bloody course until she mentioned it, he wants to say he doesn’t remember anything about that bloody three hour slot missing from a part of his life that happened five bloody years ago. But he just answers,  _ no _ . What more could he say?

  
  


“Do you have any folder or file on your office computer you need to keep secret?”

“No.”

  
  


He wants to say he barely knows how to login on the bloody computer, he wants to say even if he did want to keep files secret, he couldn’t do it, he wants to say he has nothing to hide and even if he did want to hide things, his office computer wouldn’t be his first choice. But he just answers,  _ no _ . What more could he say?

  
  


“When we searched your computer, we found a software you can use to access the dark web,” she states, folding and unfolding her fingers like she wishes she had sheets of paper to sift through as she speaks - it could have been cute, if he didn’t know two of these fingers could kill him in ten seconds.

“Yes, you told me that already,” he nods, and he realizes the more they talk, the more he leans over the table, the less sure of himself he looks - not good, that’s not good, so he does his best to straighten a little. 

“I didn’t tell you we also found two encrypted files. We still haven’t found the key. However, one of my contacts believes the key was created by an algorithm specifically designed by the SIS, in other word, the MI6. Can you tell me why you possess such files on your computer?”

“No. No, I can’t.”

“Is there a link between your disappearance in the perimeter of the MI6 headquarters five years ago and the MI6 encrypted files we found on your computer?”

“I don’t believe so, no.”

  
  


It’s funny. He’s led many interrogations in his cop life - though not as many as television programmes and movies would have people think. He always wondered what it felt like, to be on the other side of the table. Now he knows. He feels… Almost sorry, for all those people who sat in front of him. Especially the innocent ones. Now he understands what it feels like, to have this conviction of innocence and yet not be able to prove it or explain it. To know things, and be unable to share that knowledge. Like this Pythia, Cassandra. Doomed to utter true prophecies no one would ever believe because Apollo spat in her mouth. The cops, they spit their questions in the mouth of innocent people and whatever truth comes out is never taken seriously. It’s a dreadful feeling. He won’t even try to plead his case. No use.

 

So, he just watches as she disappears in the corridor for a moment, comes back with the envelope and the letter. It looks like it’s evidence - obviously it can’t be, it’s not like she’s got his prints on it or anything. He just waits for the question.

  
  


“Do you recognize this?” she asks - she’s even colder now, if even possible, and her eyes are nothing like the bright whiskey orbs he learnt to love - no, they’re just dark ambers coming to their ashen end. 

“It’s the envelope I found between the pizza boxes.”

“Did you write the message that’s in this envelope?”

“No.”

“Did you have such envelopes and such paper at your house before the arson?”

“No, I didn’t,” he says, squinting his eyes a little because that’s a rather specific question, and it seems his answer doesn’t convince her.

“Lie again, Hardy.”

  
  


She disappears again, for a minute this time, comes back with a box. The shoebox he saved from the fire that ravaged his small river shack, a shoebox that’s so precious to him he wonders why he didn’t ask her to give it back earlier. Well, it’s not as much the shoebox as what’s inside that’s important to him. Priceless. But why does Rose seem so keen on showing him what’s inside the box when he already knows, that’s one more mystery.

  
  


“That’s mine,” he finally dares to say, reaching for his box with trembling fingers but an unwavering determination, dragging it over the vinyl tablecloth until it’s safe, close to his chest.

“I know,” she shrugs - he hears a click, and he realizes she has her pair of handcuffs in her hands - well, fuck, she really wants to lock him up. “That’s the point. Open it. Don’t expect me to fall for your act again, though. Go on.”

“What act are you…”

  
  


The rest of sentence dies on the tip of his tongue as his thumbs flick the lid up, and he finally sees what’s inside. That’s it. His heart is going to give up. He feels all the blood drain from his face, he feels the thin layer of sweat that’s seeping out from every one of his pores, and his heart, Jesus, his heart, he feels like that time, more than two years ago, when he had a heart attack and almost died. No. He can’t accept that. He doesn’t care if she thinks it’s an act, he doesn’t fucking care what it is she wants to prove with this. He can’t. He can’t believe that, and he can’t accept that. 

 

He can’t swallow his sobs because his throat is still sore from her rough treatment, so he sobs. He sobs, and cries, and tears fall from his eyes, drip into the box. That’s not right. It’s not. His shaking hands rummage through the pile of sheets and envelopes, his clammy fingers leaving blurred traces all over the light brown paper. When he’s tired of searching through all of that bloody paper that’s tearing under his nails, made too fragile by the sweat oozing from his fingertips, he just turns the box around and let the stack of sheets and envelopes rain down on the table.

  
  


“Where are they?” he whimpers - his voice breaks into a high-pitched squeal of despair, but he doesn’t care. “Tyler, where are they? What did you do with them?”

“Didn’t do anything, Hardy,” she shakes her head - oh,  _ fuck _ , how much he wants to slap that stupid grin from her face. “What do you want me to think was in there before some bloke magically turned it into envelopes?”

“It was… It was…”

  
  


It won’t come out. It hurts. It hurts to think the wanker who’s tearing his life apart got his dirty, vicious hands on this treasure. His treasure. It’s gone. It’s all gone. His throat burns, now, painful, so painful, and the sobs he doesn’t even want to control anymore make it worse. He cough through his tears, wipes the tears with the back of his hands only so they can be replaced by fresher ones, rubs his eyes, rubs his face, but nothing helps. So he just buries his face in the palm of his hands and lets his shoulders shake under the force of his cries. 

  
  


“Told you I wouldn’t fall for it, Hardy,” she sighs, and he wishes he didn’t hear that, because it’s like a spell that turns his agony to a cold fury.

  
  


But he did hear it, above all the other sounds, he heard it. His chair is knocked back when he rises to his feet, climbs over the table and launches his whole body against hers. They fall down on the cold tiles with a dull thump. He straddles her, keeps her wrists into a tight lock, brings his face close to hers. He doesn’t care if it’s Rose, if it’s a woman, if it’s his boss, he just has this livid desire to  _ hurt  _ her, make her feel what he feels. He was quick enough. She didn’t expect this. He was quicker than her. She can’t escape. She won’t escape.

  
  


“I’ll tell you what was inside,” he says, his voice a deep rumble made deeper by his constricted throat, his teeth clenched so tight spit spurts out of his mouth and lands on her cheek, a thin trickle dribbling down his chin through the coarse hairs of his beard, but it doesn’t matter, he presses his forehead hard against hers and glares at her, bares his teeth, clenches his fingers around her wrists and he fucking hopes it hurts. “I’ve had this box for more than seventeen years. I’ve kept every single birthday card, every single father’s day card, every single postcard, every single post-it and note left on the fridge, every painting and drawing my daughter ever gave me. The first word she wrote, the first stickman she drew, the handprints we did on the day she was born. They were all in that box. Seventeen years of memories shared with my daughter I don’t see any longer. So fuck you, Tyler. Fuck you if you think I would have sacrificed the only things I had left to remind me of my Daisy, and for what? Fucking envelopes?  _ Fuck you _ .”

  
  


He’s not even happy to see the tears in her eyes, not even relieved that a flash of compassion shows on her face. She doesn’t deserve anything. Nothing. Nothing she will ever say or do can earn his forgiveness.  _ Nothing _ .

 

He swallows the saliva that’s gathered in his mouth so he won’t be tempted to spit it on her face, only sniffs and almost headbutts her forehead before he stands up. He brings the hem of his tee-shirt to wipe the drool and the tears from his face, takes a few deep breath, curses at his heart that still won’t accept to beat like it should. Fuck. Fuck fuck  _ fuck _ . 

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Out of reflex more than real desire to see who’s calling, he digs it out and looks at the screen. Miller. What does she want, accuse him of a hundred wrongs and arrest him, too? He doesn’t want to answer, but somehow a second later the phone is against his ear.

  
  


“What the fuck do you want, now, Miller?” he barks into the phone, running a feverish hand through his hair.

“Abu? It’s you, Abu?” a tiny, quivering voice answers - his stomach twists and an even worse feeling of something bad, really bad coming his way flows through his veins. “Abu?”

“Freddie, lad,” he sighs - fuck, he thinks,  _ fuck  _ this is definitely the worst bloody night of his life. “What are you doing with your mommy’s phone at this hour? You should be sleeping, little man.”

“Mommy taught me how to call you when I need you, Abu. Is it wrong?”

“No, of course it’s not, Freddie. Why do you need me, eh?”

“It’s mommy, Abu. I’m scared. Please, can you come?”

“Lad, where is your mommy?” he asks, trying his very best to sound as kind as he can in that moment.

“In the bedroom. She yelled at me, Abu, she’s very angry. I think she’s crying. I don’t like it when mommy cries. Please Abu, can you come?”

“Can you give the phone to your mommy, Freddie?”

“No, no,” the little boy cries even harder - and  _ shit  _ that means he’ll have to go because he just can’t let that little boy cry alone. “She said she’s going to send you to prison because you did something very wrong, Abu. But… You didn’t. You pinky-promised. So you didn’t. But Mommy doesn’t know you pinky-promised, so she’s very angry.”

“Lad, just…” he starts, but he can’t find the right words to end this. “I’m coming, okay? Leave your mommy alone, and wait for me by the front door, can you do that for me?”

“Just hurry, Abu, please.”

“I’ll be here soon, lad. Do you have your Spidey watch? I’ll be here when the big hand’s on Spidey’s finger, alright? Wait for me by the door, Freddie. I’m coming.”

  
  


Of course, Tyler heard the conversation, and she has this look in her eyes that says,  _ I dare you to leave. _

  
  


“Miller’s been my friend for a long time, Tyler,” he says as he walks into the corridor and unhooks his jacket from the coathanger - it still smells faintly of ash and smoke from the fire, but it doesn’t matter. “Freddie called me, I’m not leaving him alone. You can come, if you so wish. You can arrest me when I’m sure they’re both alright. But not before.”

“I’ll follow you with my own car,” she nods, throwing the keys to their shared police car at him. “And I  _ will  _ arrest you, Hardy. I… I really wanted to prove you were innocent, you know.”

“Aye, I can see that. See you later.  _ Boss _ .  _ Ma’am _ . Whatever.”

  
  


It doesn’t take long to drive to Miller’s house - getting anywhere in that bloody town never takes long, anyway. He parks along the white picket fence, kills the engine, observes the facade of the house. The lights are on in every single room, but all the curtains are drawn. It’s odd. He thinks he remembers Miller never closed the curtain of her bedroom - then again, maybe he’s wrong, he’s tended to be rather wrong for some time, now. 

 

He walks up the three steps towards the front door. It’s ajar. He bends a little to sneak a peek through the interstice.

  
  


“Freddie? You here, lad?” he asks softly, unwilling to scare the little boy even more than he seemed to be on the phone. “It’s me. Abu.”

“Abu!” a shrill voice screeches.

 

The door opens and the boy raises his arms high in the air, obviously thrilled to see him despite the tears that haven’t completely dried on his round cheeks. He picks him up with a small smile, cradles him in his arms and brushes his thumbs over his face to wipe the remnants of tears.

  
  


“You okay? Where’s your mommy, then?”

“I’m here. Put my son down.”

  
  


He looks up towards the stairs at the end of the corridor, and he’s welcomed -  _ unwelcomed  _ \- by the sight of a Miller, disheveled, scared, angry, something else he can’t figure out. Oh, and she’s pointing a gun at him. That, too. And she looks rather keen on using it. Why, he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t know much anymore anyway. It’s just a fucking nightmare.

  
  


“Put my son down, right now, Hardy!” she shouts, the aim of her gun slightly wavering as she takes a step forward.

“I told you she’s angry, Abu,” the little boy whispers to him - and, oblivious to his mother’s request, he only clutches tighter to his jacket.

“Aye, I can see that, lad,” he nods, swallowing thickly. “I’m going to put you down, now, alright?”

“Please, Abu, no, I’m scared.”

  
  


But the little boy murmured these words so low his mother didn’t hear them. 

 

He wants to put him down, he’s aware Miller won’t hesitate to shoot, he’s seen that look on her face before. But the little boy squirms in his arms and he just has to hold him tighter so he won’t fall. He just wanted to protect him.

 

It’s deafening. He saw it coming, so he covered the boy’s ears with his large palms, as best as he could while still holding him. His own ears, they’re ringing, loud, a high-pitched whistle that makes him dizzy. He’ll never get used to the sound of a bullet being fired. He’ll never get used to the pain such a bullet can bring.

 

He takes a large, quavering intake of air, lets the boy slides down from his arms, tells him, softly, kindly, to go back to his mother. He looks down, sees the blood - not much, just enough to make the pain sharper, more real. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. That’s all he can think when he looks at his feet and sees the small pool of blood growing, and growing. It hurts. He raises his eyes to look at Miller, she’s closer now, and the boy is gone. And Miller, she’s getting closer, and closer, until she’s standing right in front of him, so close he sees her pale yellow socks soak up part of his blood. It hurts. He knows it hurts, but somehow his body doesn’t really process it the way it should. It hurts, but it just feels like he’s looking at the pain from the outside. It’s painful, but it’s not really his pain. Weird. That’s weird.

  
  


“You shot my foot,” he states, calmly, cocking his head to side with raised eyebrow. “Why?”

  
  


She doesn’t answer. Or, yes, she does, but not with voice. She just propels her knee into his groin, and now his body can properly process the pain. He falls down on the floor, a wail of pain tearing through the silence, her curls up into a ball, squeezes his eyes shut, covers his crotch with hands as if it’s any help, gulps down some fresh air to try and stop his lungs from convulsing. It hurts, now. Really, really hurts. Not just his balls and his cock, but his foot, too, and the shoulder and the elbow on which he landed, and his ears still ringing after the gunshot. Jesus. It hurts.

 

He tries to protest when his hands are pulled away and his arms twisted behind his back, tries to protest when cuffs are snapped closed around his wrists, but it seems he can’t be understood through his cries and groans of pain. 

  
  


“Ellie, what the Hell did I do?” he whimpers, grimacing when Rose tugs harshly on his jacket so he’s sitting - doesn’t help with the pain, sitting. 

  
  


He understands the knee in his balls when he hears her answer.

  
  


“No one  _ touches  _ my boy.”

  
  


It’s definitely the worst bloody night of his life. And he laughs. 

 

* * *

 


	26. Teddy Bear Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suspicion of child abuse

* * *

 

 

He hates that smell. He’s always hated that smell. 

 

He thinks he started hating it when he was seven. A young boy. He was an…  _ Average  _ kid. Not very smart, but not a dum dum either. Just average. Average results at school, average ranking at the swimming club competitions, average capacity to play the piano. He wasn’t destined to be an astronaut or an Olympic athlete or a professional musician. And it never mattered to him, because he knew he was just average. And at seven, he already knew he wanted to help people. That’s what he’s always wanted to do. Help people. And even average people can do that. So, he went through several periods, trying to decide what was the best career option for an average boy aged seven. 

 

The first, he wanted to be a firefighter. Glued aluminium foil on his bike helmet, borrowed his dad’s overalls, put on a pair of boots and strapped a fire extinguisher over his back with a horse harness. His parents weren’t that happy when he sprayed the foam all over the barbecue on that summer day. The formidable scolding he received and the foam that got in his eye and almost made him blind were reasons enough to decide that, maybe, being a firefighter wasn’t for him.

 

The second, he wanted to work for charities. Signed up with the local Red Cross, was absolutely thrilled to have their patch sewn onto the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket, filled his backpack with cans of food and candies to give out to the homeless of the nearest city. The Red Cross volunteer who accompanied him wasn’t that happy he ate half the candies and opened several cans of beans to feed a single stray dog. The formidable scolding he received and the homeless, scary old man who yelled at him for wasting food on a stupid pooch were enough to decide that, maybe, being a volunteer wasn’t for him.

 

The third, he wanted to be a policeman. Bought this toy panoply at the Poundland right next to his school, with the money he was supposed to invest in his lunch. Hooked the handcuffs in his belt, pinned the badge over the Red Cross patch sewn onto the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket, brandished his small plastic gun at every given occasion, screaming all those one-liners he remembered from the shows he watched on the telly. His teacher wasn’t that happy when he handcuffed a girl in the toilets, on the motive that she stole one of his favorite marbles and tried to bribe him with a kiss on the cheek. The formidable scolding he received and the public humiliation he had to survive when he had to apologize to the stupid girl in front of the whole class were enough to decide that, maybe, being a policeman wasn’t for him.

 

The fourth, and the last, he wanted to be a nurse. Put on his big sister’s lab coat she used for her chemistry lessons, built a fake stethoscope with bits and pieces he found in the back garden shed , slipped a pen and a plastic syringe his dad used to stuff him with cough syrup in the breast pocket of the coat. His mum wasn’t that happy when he made a scene in the middle of the hospital, cried his hearts out because that aunt he’d never seen before looked like a decaying corpse on the white bed, in the white room in a white hospital full of people dressed in white. And the smell. Acid detergent, a smell even worse that the chlore at the swimming pool, even worse than the horse shite and cow dung on his parent’s farm. Detergent, and something else, something an average boy aged seven couldn’t understand at the time. He wasn’t scolded, he wasn’t blinded or yelled at or humiliated. But the smell. It was enough to decide that being a nurse definitely wasn’t for him.

 

The smell. Thirty-six years later, and it still hasn’t changed one bit. The same acid detergent, the same something else. Only, he’s older now, and now, he knows what the something else is. Blood. Pain. Tears. Death. The detergent, they don’t use it to clean as much as to try and cover all of those smells. He hates those smells. He hates hospitals. 

 

Why is he at the hospital?

 

He can’t remember. He tries to open his eyes, but the eyelids are heavy, sticky with dried tears and boogers. Nevermind. He hates the white of the hospital anyway. He tries to listen, but his ears are too deep in an uncomfortable pillow and all he hears is his steady heartbeat. At least, he can’t hear the beeps and the buzzes of the machines he’s probably hooked to. He tries to open his mouth, but his jaw feels like it hasn’t been used in years and his tongue feels dry against his palate. It’s not like he would have anything to say to anyone at this point, anyway. 

 

Why is he at the hospital?

 

He tries to remember. At least, his brain seems to be functional enough. He remembers blond hair and strawberry. Rose. He remembers Rose, and he remembers they had an argument in the bathroom, no, the kitchen, about the case, no, well, yes, but mostly no. He thinks. He remembers the envelopes, and the shoebox, and he remembers his treasure is gone. God, his treasure is gone. His eyelids don’t feel as sticky any longer - the tears that gather underneath are fighting to seep through the salty booger glue, and they’re strong enough to escape from the corner of his eyes, roll down his temples. His precious, so precious treasure, it’s all gone.

 

He lifts his hand to his face to wipe the tears away. Tries to. He barely manages to raise it by a few inches that it gets stuck. Even with his ears in the pillow, he hears it. The clicks. Metal against metal. A chain. His wrist hurts, too. Not much, just a light burning sensation, sore tendons and tight muscles. Why does everything have to bloody hurt? Because he feels it all, now. His brain is waking up, and so is his body. It’s like walking through a thick fog, but a sweet fog, white and fluffy, the kind of fog he’s often seen early in the morning, lazily floating into the valleys tucked between high hills. The further he walks, the thinner the fog becomes, the more discernible the desolated landscape it hides becomes. Ruins, smoke and ashes. Pain. So much pain.

 

He starts to feel it. The pain in his right foot. The pain that makes his crotch throb. The pain inside. The further he walks, the more painful his whole body gets. He wants to turn on his heels, walk right back into the fog. Never wake up. But he’s almost at the end of the road, now. No turning back. He remembers too much to turn back. He remembers everything. The gunshot, the knee in his balls, the handcuffs around his wrists. The betrayal of who he believed to be his partner, the betrayal of who he believed to be his best friend. 

 

If he still had any hope that this was just a ginormous, ridiculous prank, the handcuffs that keep him attached to the hospital bed relieve him of that hope. Nothing left. There’s nothing left to hope for. He should enjoy the smell of the hospital while he can. He hates the smell, but he hates the smell of a prison cell even more. And these are the only two places he’ll get to smell until the day he dies.

  
  


“Are you awake?”

  
  


He hears it. The voice is a bit muffled, but he hears it. He recognizes it. He doesn’t want to hear it. So, he pretends he’s not awake, keeps his eyes closed and the wince away from his face when his big toe twitches and sends a spark of pain through his whole foot.

  
  


“Wake up, Hardy.”

  
  


No, he won’t. He doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to see. He’s perfectly fine suffering in silence, in the darkness. A warm hand takes his. Small, soft fingers against his longer, rougher ones. He recognizes these fingers, too. They belong to the voice. But when these fingers were once tender and brought comfort, now they’re just… Fingers. Shaking his hand, pulling on his hand, trying to coax him out of the slumber he pretends he’s still in. It hurts, it makes the handcuffs rub against his already burnt skin, it makes the sore muscles in his arms protest against the movement. He’s tired of hurting.

 

So he clears his throat, folds his fingers into a fist, moans, lets his heavy eyelids flutter open. He sees her. He knew it was her, but somehow, seeing her there, in her Detective outfit, gun and badge at her hips, hair tied into a strict bun - not the messy, artful one he loves, it makes it worse. The betrayal. The anger. The lassitude. He’s not ready to be interrogated again. 

  
  


“How are you feeling?” she asks, letting go of his hand to fetch a chair and sit down, next to the bed.

“Sad,” he whispers, voice rough and uncertain, after a few seconds spent trying to think of a good answer.

“I meant, are you hurting, do you need more painkillers?”

“Don’t pretend you care, Tyler.”

“Fine, I don’t care,” she nods with pinched lips, sifting through some kind of thick file. “So. First things first. You were lucky.”

“Really?” he chuckles - well, a poor attempt at a chuckle that only comes out as a broken cough, but she can’t blame him for not trying. “Lucky?”

“Your foot is relatively fine, given it was shot. Surgeon said the bullet was fired from far away enough for it to be low velocity. They removed the fragments of the bullet, gave you antitetanic shots, cleaned the wound. They had to amputate your little toe, but they can fix it later with a graft. Lots of broken bones, obviously, lots of skin missing, but nothing irreparable. They said three or four round trips in surgery should do the trick. You’re lucky the injury is not worse, you’re lucky they had a surgeon who knew how to deal with this kind of injury.”

“I would have been lucky if Miller had shot me dead. Sod off, Tyler, I’m tired.”

“Don’t you want to know about your balls?”

  
  


He hates to see the grin on her face. He’s seen that exact same grin on her face before. Just a few times. The times when she wanted to ridicule him, taunt him, laugh at him. But those times, it was meant to be friendly, light-hearted. Now, it’s just… Scornful. Vile. Like she can’t wait to give him the bad news,  _ your balls are gone and I wish I were the one who cut them off _ . 

 

He still can’t understand that either. Sometimes, he can feel compassion for thieves and murderers, for scum and bandits - a story, a context, a purpose that can explain, even if they can’t excuse. But pedophiles. There’s no redemption for that kind of people, nothing to be explained, nothing to be understood. To know Rose, to know Miller, to know they both think he could have ever touched that little boy he almost considers to be his son… It makes no sense. He can’t become the kind of person he’d gladly send to the gallows. Maybe he’s a psycho, maybe he’s an amnesiac, maybe he’s an arsonist and a thief. He could accept that if presented with enough proof. But no evidence, no proof will ever be enough to convince him he’s a monster. He’s many things, but he’s not a monster.

  
  


“My balls would be fine if they put a jockstrap big enough for my cock,” he grunts, bringing his free hand to his crotch to readjust the plastic cup. “And I don’t know who’s the genius who decided a catheter under a jock was a good idea, but let me tell you, it hurts. I suppose you’re glad it does? I suppose you’re glad I have to piss liquid fire that burns my cock into a small plastic bag?”

“You’ll have to keep the jock for at least a week,” she says, unfazed by the bitterness of his words and the grim smile painted over his tired features. “No serious trauma, but you do have massive contusions. It’s going to be painful for a while, but it won’t affect your sterility or you ability to have erections.”

“‘Cause obviously, all I can think about right now is getting a hard-on and jerking off. Just go away, Tyler. I want to sleep.”

“You’ll sleep when I tell you you can sleep, Hardy. I need to ask you some questions.”

“I do not have to say anything and I won’t answer your questions,” he says with a scowl, swatting his hand to knock the pen she’s holding out of her hand before he closes his eyes and pretends to go back to sleep. “Just get me a solicitor and sod off before I sue you for abuse of authority.”

“If you’re really innocent, that’s not the way to go, Hardy, you know that,” she sighs - he hears the heavy file being slapped closed and the squeak of the chair on the linoleum, and thank God she’s about to leave. “But suit yourself. Just answer me this, Hardy. Did it only happen with Fred?”

  
  


And that’s the question he was waiting for, the question he both dreaded and wanted to hear. The question that terrifies him, and the question that infuriates him. He’s overwhelmed by a sudden desire to slap her, to strangle her, to bloody smack some sense into her thick head, to yell, to cry, to beg, to die. But he can’t. There’s nothing he can do. Nothing.

  
  


“I never touched Freddie,” he only whispers - it’s useless, it’s futile and hopeless, but he refuses to throw a tantrum and give her any more reasons to think he’s a monster. “Never. I’ve never touched a kid in my life.”

“Fred said you saw him naked regularly. He also said you touched his genitals on several occasions.”

“Have you already taken care of very young children, Tyler?”

“No,” she shakes her head as she bends to pick up her pen, then opens her folder again. “Why?”

“Do you think I should have left Fred alone in the shower?” he asks with raised eyebrows. “Do you think I should have let him put his own clothes on? Or let him change his own diapers when he was two? Or wipe his own arse when he stopped using them? Let him marinate in his own piss when he wet himself?”

“Hardy…”

“I saw him naked, yes. Just like I saw my daughter naked when she was just a toddler. Yes, I might have touched his penis at some point, even if I didn’t do it on purpose. What do you want me to say, Tyler? I’m not going to deny that. I looked after that kid as if he was my own. I showered him, dressed him, changed his diapers, wiped his arse. And if that makes me a monster, every bloody parent on this planet is a monster, too. But you’re right. I should have risked him breaking his neck in the tub and let him sit on the potty for hours until the shit dried and he could scratch it off his butt himself. He’s bloody four, Tyler. You ask him if I’ve ever seen him naked or touched his weenie, of course he’s going to say  _ yes _ . Do you honestly think he can make the difference between caring and abusing? You should have asked him if he ever saw  _ me  _ naked, if he ever saw  _ me  _ touching  _ my  _ weenie when he was around. That would have made more sense. And he would have said  _ no _ . Because I have never, you hear me,  _ never  _ touched him or did anything even remotely sexual with or to that kid, and just having to say this makes me want to puke.”

“Fine, just let me...’ she starts, finishing to write down some notes on a spare sheet of paper.

“I answered your question, Tyler. Now sod off. I’m done with this shit. Come find me when you have proof I…”

“That’s the thing, Hardy,” she interrupts with a stern glare, rummaging through her bag to pull out a plastic zip folder - tagged and stamped with the crest of the Broadchurch police. “We have evidence. Hard evidence.”

  
  


She throws the plastic bag at him, it lands on his stomach and he winces in pain when his body tenses and makes the inside of his thighs squeeze the tender flesh. He sees what’s in the bag. His eyes widen at the sight of the bright blue fabric printed with a few variations of the same character . L ittle Spidermen. Time stops. His heart stops. His lungs stop. Everything stops, for a long moment. He just stares at the little Spidermen printed on the boy’s briefs. He remembers that one time, just two weeks ago, when Fred made an hour-long scene because he wanted to wear those exact same briefs - that unfortunately were still drying on the rack, so he had to wear the one with little Batmen instead. 

 

Briefs.  _ Briefs _ . No. No, no, no. That can’t be evidence. No way this is evidence. What did they find on this? A single hair? Traces of sweat left by his fingers? A flake of skin? 

  
  


“The forensics team found traces of your DNA on this,” she states with an undisguised grimace of disgust, snatching the bag back. “More specifically, traces of your sperm. The amount suggests you masturbated and ejaculated over the back. They can’t say if the boy was wearing them when it happened, but that won’t lessen the charges.”

“You’re… You’re lying,” he wheezes, too lost, too desperate, too horrified to realize the way his whole body convulses in pain and terror. “I’ve never… You’re… No, no, I didn’t... “

“This is sperm, Hardy. Someone might have found traces of your saliva on a glass, or some of your hairs, or blood, stolen one of your sweaty tee-shirts at the station. This is sperm. How would anyone be able to gather enough of your sperm to make it look like you ejaculated over a four year-old boy’s underwear?”

“I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  
  


He doesn’t know, but he knows he fucking didn’t do such a thing. Never.  _ Never _ . 

  
  


“Calm down, Hardy, you’re hurting yourself!” she shouts above his nonsensical mumbles and the giggles that fall from his mouth.

  
  


Hurting, yes. He’s hurting. Everywhere. The way he’s writhing in the bed, it makes his feet tangle in the sheet and he spots the blood staining the white fabric, it makes the jockstrap cup press down on his crotch and he feels how tight it is, it makes his wrist pull on the handcuffs and it cuts through his skin even more. He’s hurting. He’s losing it. He’s completely mad. He’s completely mad, but he’s not a monster. He’s not. 

 

She tries to still him, but she gets too close. Way too close. His fingers wrap around her throat, tight, and pull, hard, so hard she can’t fight it and her face, now inches away from his, turns red, very red. So what if he kills her, he’s already facing a lifetime in prison anyway. And she’s killing him, too. She’s taking his life, what’s left of his miserable life, she’s taking it all away. Before she arrived, his life might have been the epitome of boredom, but at least he was sane. Before she arrived, he might have been a grumpy old tosser, but at least he had a clear conscience. Before she arrived…  _ Before she arrived _ . 

 

His eyes widen at the realization and his mouth curl into a manic grin. His fingers slips behind her neck and pull her face even closer, so close their forehead are touching.

  
  


“Who the fuck are you?” he whispers, staring into her eyes, almost happy to see some of the blood vessels have blown. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“You’re not making any sense, Hardy,” she hisses, her voice a bit hoarse and her fingers trying to pry his fingers off her neck. “I’m not doing anything to you.”

“You come here, and a day later everything goes to shit? I meet you, and not even a week later I’m being held in custody with half a foot missing and a pair of mashed balls, accused of being a pedophile?”

“The evidence, Hardy, I….”

“We fucked, Tyler. How easy could it have been for you to pick up a condom and use it to fake evidence?“

“Fake evidence?” she huffs - he wants to admire her determination and the rather credible annoyance she shows, but he only despises her more for lying with such aplomb.

“I’ve been in this bed for, what, a day, at most?” he says, crunching his nose and grimacing, his anger slowly building up over her indifference. “So, in a day, you managed to find the only pair of briefs with my sperm, God knows how you knew where to look and even knew you’d find it, have it analysed by the forensics team and get the results? Just a day? Don’t bullshit me, Rose. Now, you obviously want to have me locked up, for reasons I don’t understand. But you have enough without those bloody Spiderman underwear. Don’t make it look like I raped a child, Tyler. Lock me up for all the worst crimes in the world if you so wish, but don’t accuse me of hurting a child. Do you understand?”

“Hardy, I didn’t…”

“Do you understand?!” he bellows with eyes he’s sure a throwing thunderbolts, tightening his fingers so much he feels some of her hair being pulled out. 

“Let me go, Alec,” she snaps, trying to push herself up, trying to escape his fingers, digging her own fingers in his shoulders. “You’re only making it worse.”

“I told you. Don’t call me  _ Alec _ . Now fuck off, wench. And find me that bloody solicitor.”

  
  


He shoves her away as hard as his arm allow him to and glares at her until she picks up her bag and her file.

  
  


“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she simply says, though with a quivering voice, smoothing the strand of hair that’s gone astray under her strict bun. “Ellie wants to speak to you. If I were you, I’d keep a low profile and apologize. She’s devastated. Don’t give her any reason to strangle you.”

  
  


The door is barely opened that a small mass of blue and yellow bolts through the room, climbs on the chair and over the rail of the hospital bed.

  
  


“Fred, come back here, right now!” he hears Miller shout as she follows in her son’s footsteps and rushes towards the bed.

  
  


But the little boy is already nestled on his side, hands firmly clutched around the gown obviously with no intention to let it go.

  
  


“I’m sorry, Abu, I shouldn’t have called you with mommy’s phone,” he cries against his shoulder, his tiny body shaking against his and his tears soaking his gown. “I’m sorry she hurt you.”

“She didn’t hurt me, lad,” he says softly, intent on ignoring how Miller is ready to pounce and snatch her son away from him. “It was just a loud firecracker. You’ve seen the fireworks before, eh? They’re loud, but they don’t hurt anyone. I’m fine, Freddie, just go back to your mommy, aye?”

“What’s this?” he asks between sniffs, lightly tugging on the plastic tube that’s hooked into the back of his palm. 

“Oh that’s, uh… Something Inspector Gadget gave to me. He said it’s to make me stronger, but I don’t think it’s working really well. I’ll have to tell him this gadget isn’t great.”

“Why are you attached to the bed with this, Abu?”

“Ah,” he says after he clears his throat, throwing a glance at the handcuffs. “We played cops and robbers with Detective Tyler, earlier, and I lost. She’s really good at this game, you know. Much better than I am.”

“You lost because of me?”

“No, lad, of course not. You know what, we could team up for the next round. Just go find Detective Tyler and try to steal the keys. I need to speak to your mommy, you can come back when you have the keys and we win, aye? Then we can watch a bit of Bob the Builder, what do you say?”

“Mommy said stealing is wrong,” the little boy pouts, eyeing him with something akin to worry.

“And she’s absolutely right, lad. But this is just a game, it’s not for real. See the handcuffs? Detective Tyler did that, but it’s not for real. Because she says I did something wrong, but I really didn’t. It’s just like when you put on your Bob helmet. You’re not really a builder, are you, Freddie? Well, same for me and the handcuffs. I’m not really a robber.”

“So if I get the keys, can we watch…”

“Yes, we’ll watch the  _ Teddy Bear Rescue _ ,” he smiles even before the boy can finish the sentence - he just knows that’s his favourite episode and he tends to get sick if he doesn’t watch it at least once a week.

“And can we eat…” he whispers, throwing a glance back at his mom. “You know.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any Fizzers, Freddie. But later, aye? Go on, then. Find the keys.”

“Okay! Look out, here we come!”

  
  


The boy presses a loud and wet smooch over his cheek, lets his body slide down the mattress and runs out of the room as fast as he came in, in an obvious hurry to get the keys so he can watch his show. And that leaves him alone. With Miller. Who thinks he raped her kid. Why, yes, why not make that horrible day even more horrible?

  
  


“How do you even know the episodes of that stupid cartoon?” is, against his worst expectations, her first question, her glare stern, arms crossed over her chest. 

“He’s been watching that stupid cartoon for two years, Miller, and I’ve babysat him for almost as long,” he sighs, half-relieved she’s not going in straight for the kill, half-nervous that she’s just letting her anger simmer until it boils and she can properly lash out at him. “Did you even know, we sanded that one DVD, with the  _ Teddy Bear _ episode. We watched it so many times it just stopped working and I had to buy another one.”

“Fizzers?”

“Never more than on roll, and I always make sure he keeps them under his tongue and let them melt so he doesn’t choke on them. It was our secret. Kind of.”

“Any more secrets you share with my son you want to tell me about?” she asks - he notices how her fists are clenching and unclenching on her sides, and he wonders if she’s going to strangle him at some point.

“Aye,” he nods, dragging himself up the bed so he can sit against the cushion and quit looking so weak and guilty. “We, uh… Broke one of your lamps in the living-room playing baseball. That was a month ago? I just reordered everything on the sideboard hoping you wouldn’t notice. And most of the time, I read him two stories before bed instead of one.”

“That’s not what I meant, Hardy.”

“I know that.”

  
  


He tiredly rubs his hand down his face, lacking the energy to explain for what feels like one too many times he’s not that kind of man to someone who’s convinced he is. But he has to try. Miller is the last person he can count on. The last person he has a chance to persuade, and even if not to persuade, at least to make doubt. 

  
  


“Miller… Ellie,” he corrects himself, thinking there has never been a more appropriate time to try and be more familiar with her. “You know me.”

“I thought I knew my ex-husband,” she shrugs - and he has to admit, one point to Miller. “He was a child murderer. Well on his way to be a pedophile. Never saw it coming. Why couldn’t it be the same for you?”

“I started babysitting Fred when Joe’s trial opened. If you didn’t have any doubt about me then, knowing anyone you knew could be a murderer or a rapist or a pedophile, you shouldn’t have any now. I never sexually abused your son, Ellie. I love Freddie, and I think he loves me. He was too young to understand when Joe went away. You want to know why he calls me Abu?”

“That ridiculous monkey in Aladdin?”

“Aye,” he nods, unconsciously scratching his stubbled cheek. “He wanted me to be the Sultan, at first. He said, quote,  _ at least I get to call you Daddy so my friends don’t make fun of me because I don’t have one _ . So I told him, _ I’m not your Dad, lad _ , and he decided I’d be Abu because he’s grumpy and has a beard. Not Jafar, because Jafar is too evil. But Abu.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not, Ellie. Look… I don’t know where or how Tyler found that evidence, but I promise you. The worst thing I could do to your son is give him cavities for feeding him too many sweets. I would never hurt Freddie. I would never hurt a child. And you should know that. Sandbrook almost killed me, Danny almost killed me. I’d give my life so kids can live theirs. I’d die right now if I could give these kids their lives back. You know that. I care about Fred. I won’t let him call me Daddy, but if you want me to be honest, that doesn’t mean I don’t think of him as my son.”

“Then why did you write that letter, Hardy?” she asks, taking out another of these plastic zip folder from her inside pocket. “Did you even write it?”

  
  


He takes the folder she hands him, and the words on it are enough for his face to be drained of its blood. It’s the same kind of paper both he and Tyler received, the same kind of manila envelope. The same kind of self-inked stamp, only this one is a little monkey with a hat and a jacket. Abu. 

 

_ You said you wanted a girl. I’m glad you had a boy. Lollies are sweeter than apple pies. Taste better. Fred sounds better than Shana, too. Thanks for the treat, Ellie. _

  
  


“You were the only person, except for Joe, whom I told I wanted a girl called Shana,” she says, taking back the folder and shoving it back in her pocket. “How do you explain that?”

“I… I can’t,” he answers with a weak shrug - he’s just tired, so tired that everything can be linked back to him when he knows he hasn’t done anything. “But I didn’t write that, Ellie. I don’t know who did, but I know I didn’t. I can’t prove it, but you have to believe me. You’re my only friend left, Ellie. Please, help me out of this nightmare.”

“Friend?  _ Please _ ? Did I smash your balls so hard you turned into a softy?”

“I’m exhausted and full of painkillers that kill everything but the pain, Miller. I just… That’s all I can say to you. I didn’t do it. I’m done trying to plead my case when everything and everyone is against me.”

“I believe you.”

  
  


He blinks, raises his eyebrows, frowns, opens his mouth but no sound comes out of it. That’s… Unexpected. The very good kind of unexpected. 

  
  


“Fred was a mess when he understood what he said caused you trouble,” she continues, sitting at the foot of the bed, lifting the cover to see the blood oozing from the gauze covering his foot. “I asked him more questions in the car, when we were alone and not under the pressure of the police station. He’s only four. He’s a clever boy, but he wouldn’t know saying  _ Abu poked my weenie in the shower, once _ would incriminate you of pedophilia. Just tell me, Alec. Do you have any idea how your sperm could end up on my boy’s underwear?”

“I’m not saying it’s her, but…” he starts, wincing when she pulls on the gauze and grimaces in disgust. “Tyler, she had… Condoms. Don’t you think it’s odd? That the moment she moves in, all of this happens?”

“It’s odd, but I don’t think it’s her. She cried a lot, you know. She really cares about you. She doesn’t want to leave one stone unturned and she won’t give up until she finds evidence that prove you’re innocent. But… She’s the new Chief Detective, Hardy. She has to do her job, and everything she has right now... It all leads back to you, and she has to take action.”

“Right. Just one thing, Miller. If you believe me, why did you shoot me and why are my balls the size of coconuts?”

  
  


She chuckles a bit sheepishly at that and rubs her hand over his calf in a soothing motion - which he finds quite odd and just a bit embarrassing.

  
  


“I didn’t believe you, then,” she shrugs - and thank God, she seems to notice how awkward it is and folds her hand over her thigh. “I kinda freaked out when I found the letter in my backyard. My boys… I live in constant fear that something’s going to happen to them. I’d do anything to protect them and their innocence, and then I read that letter and I remembered what Joe did, and I thought, bloody Hell, you, too. Then Fred was in your arms, and all I could think of was, that man raped my boy and he’s hugging him like nothing happened. I’m… I’m sorry, Hardy. I really am.”

“That’s fine, Miller,” he sighs, although his foot is screaming the exact opposite and hurts like a bitch. “Next time, just…”

“Abu, I have the keys!” a joyful shriek interrupts him as the small boy darts towards the bed, a set of keys between his pouty fingers - dang, Tyler actually gave him the bloody keys. “Can we watch the  _ Teddy Bear Rescue _ ? Please?”

  
  


He gives Miller a look that asks  _ can we  _ and a smile that says  _ I promised and now I realize I don’t have anything to watch Bob the Builder on _ . She grins back with a roll of her eyes, lifts the boy so he can lie down next to him, hands him her phone.

  
  


“Just open the YouTube app, it’s all on there,” she says as she unlocks the handcuffs and frees him from the burn and the ache. “I’ll get you a nurse for your foot. Rose is already trying to find the best solicitor you can get and she called a barrister from North Wales who’s got a ninety-nine percent success rate.”

“Thanks, Ellie.”

“No more than two episodes, boys. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Can we get Fizzers?” the little boy asks in a whisper, tugging on the sleeve of his gown.

  
  


He wants to apologize and tell him he hasn’t got any Fizzers hidden away in his gown. 

 

Two rolls of Fizzers land on his chest. He lifts his eyes towards the door, and he sees her. Tyler. Rose. She gives him a small smile, shows him his jacket in which he always keeps a few rolls of sweets, presses her lips over two of her fingers and waves them at him, a half-hearted and wavering goodbye before she goes away.

  
  


“Come on, Abu, I want to watch the  _ Teddy Bear Rescue _ !”

“Aye, lad,” he murmurs, not even looking at the screen. “Let’s watch the  _ Teddy Bear Rescue _ .”

 

* * *

 


	27. Hope

* * *

 

 

The car is making him sick. It might be the meds still running in his veins he can’t really cope with. It might be the bumps and potholes of the road that shake his stomach a bit too roughly. It might just be knowing where they’re headed to. 

 

He’s always hated the hospital. It should have come as a relief when the doctor accepted to discharge him after two weeks spent torn between the boredom of staying in a bed and the worry of having to get out of the same bed. It should have been great. No more nurses, no more doctors, no more meds and infusions and surgeries. It would have been great to leave this white cell that smelled of death and detergent. 

 

But he knows he’s on his way to a place worse than this. No nurses, but constables. No doctors, but officers. No surgeries, but interrogations. It’s not great, not at all, to know he’s only trading a bright cell for a dark one. It’s not great, to know he’s only trading a hospital room for a custody room. Definitely not a great feeling, to know he’s just being bounced from one prison to another.

 

She was kind enough not to handcuff him. The crutches he has to use must have weighed in the balance of her decision. Not like he can run anywhere with his mangled foot that’s only partially healed. It still hurts. And Jesus, does it look ugly. He only looked at it once, when the nurse changed the dressing four days ago. He shouldn’t have looked. Really shouldn’t. The grafts of skin haven’t quite scarred yet, the violet and swollen protuberance that replaces his little toe looks like a failed experiment, the sutures and stitches are half-rotten, half-frayed and tapered, coated in coagulated blood. He thinks he might sue the hospital for releasing him despite the obvious medical danger that foot represents. But well. Tough luck suing anyone from custody.

 

A deeper pothole makes his stomach heave, and he pretends to rub his mouth, only to hide the gag that’s twisting his face. Ah. She’s a Detective. And he sees his face in the mirror, and even if he couldn’t see it he’d feel it, just how grey his face has turned, the color of an old newspaper left for too long under the sun. That, with his bloodshot eyes and the pearls of sweat shining on his forehead are clues enough to figure out he’s sick.

  
  


“There’s a can of ginger ale in the glovebox, if you want,” she tells him with barely a look thrown into the left mirror.

“Is that a gift?” he grins a little sadly, popping the box open to fetch the soda. “Last drink as a free man, eh?”

“It’s just good for stubborn stomachs. Do you want me to stop at the Boots to get you medicine?”

“I’ve been fed and infused with enough medicine for the rest of my days, Tyler. No thanks.”

“Alright,” she nods - he notices her hand hover over the clutch, like she hesitates between changing gears and squeezing his thigh, which is weird, because he hates her a bit, and he believes she hates him a lot. “I need to make a quick detour by the station. Hope you don’t mind.”

“How do you mean, a  _ detour _ ?” he frowns, worried that he might not even get the chance to stay at the station as a simple suspect before being kicked into a prison cell. “Where are we going next?”

  
  


She pinches her lips and takes a deep breath. But she doesn't answer.

  
  


“Tyler, you can’t send me to prison, not even for preventive detention,” he tells her, doing his best to remember everything about the law and jurisdiction that could save him from the bars.

“I know,” she nods, mouth still tight and eyes barely blinking, fixed on the road.

“You told me a week ago you wouldn’t press charges before I could be interrogated at the station with my solicitor, so…”

“I know.”

“Unless you did press charges, which would be illegal, and already ordered a trial, which would be just as illegal, you can’t…”

“I know.”

“All you can do is keep me in custody, and then again, if you haven’t pressed any charges I should be free to go, because it’s been more than two weeks and…”

“I know, Hardy, I know!”

  
  


Shaking, tears rolling down her cheeks, she pulls over and parks over a bus lane. Her fingers clutch the wheel as she breathes in, breathes out, squeezes her eyes shut. He wonders what’s happening. Maybe if she hadn’t treated him like shite and ruined what’s left of his life, he would have tried to comfort her, find out more about what’s troubling her. But he doesn’t. He just looks at her. And he takes a sip of his ginger ale with a disinterested shrug, and he’s almost tempted to ask if she’s got any biscuits.

  
  


“So, where are we going next, then?” he asks instead - he grimaces and loudly chews on nothing when he realizes the ginger ale is a bit warm. “The monster parade so you can show me to people and gather a few quids into a hat?”

“No, Alec,” she says softly, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her large woolen jumper and brushing her hair back into a messy bun - two of the things he likes the most about her, that cute oversized jumper and that messy bun. Or used to like. “I was hoping… We’d go home.”

  
  


Well. That’s unexpected. Should he be relieved? Or thankful? Maybe he should. But somehow, he looks at her and he still sees the woman he’s convinced has a lot, of not everything, to do with the shitstorm ravaging his life. And he’s neither. She’s making efforts, loads of efforts, to make him feel better, to try and show him she hasn’t given up on him, and he recognizes that. But it just doesn’t work. He looks at her, and all he sees is a sly devil who’s trying to put a spell on him. Make him believe everything is alright. Make him think he’s not alone. Make him trust her. He stopped trusting her too long ago to fall for that spell.

  
  


“You’ve got a home, Tyler,” he says, indifferent to her tears and the exhaustion showing on her face. “I haven’t. And don’t call me  _ Alec _ .”

“Look…” she starts between hard gulps and unconvincing attempts at reigning her quiet sobs in. “I haven’t slept for two weeks, I’ve been working my arse off for you, day and night, trying to find something, anything that could help you. Ellie didn’t make a statement, didn’t file a complaint, and she’s been working just as hard because you told her she was your bloody friend and she has a heart bigger than ten of yours put together, and she wants to help you, too. We’re trying, Hardy. We’re fucking trying.”

“Well, maybe you’re not trying hard enough,” he shrugs as he puts the can into the cup holder - and he knows he’s back to being his old, bitter tosser-self, but he doesn’t have enough sympathy left in him to care. “What have you got to save my hide, eh?”

“Not much, but…”

“Aye, that’s what I thought.”

“Not much, but enough to keep you out of jail, you ginormous tosser!” she shoots backs, her fingers turning white around the wheel as if she’s fighting the temptation to strangle him. “I almost lost my job, if it weren’t for Ellie you’d have lost what little protection I can give you!”

“Protection?” he smirks with a pointed look at his foot trapped in a thick sock. “Dang, where would I be if you hadn’t protected me, Tyler?”

“Already rotting away at Guys Marsh with an arsehole the size of a manhole. Probably. Blokes with a pert little arse like yours are quite popular in prison. But you know that, already, don’t you?”

“That the best you can think of? Having my arse enlarged in prison? I thought you were more inventive than that, Tyler. Then again, I thought you could be a good Detective. Guess I was wrong. Shite joker and shite Detective, now I understand why you picked Borechurch.”

“I might be a shite Detective, Hardy, but I’m a shite Detective who managed to find something to release you on bail and save your arse from having to be stitched back together!” she shouts, slapping her palms over the wheel and throwing him a look, furious and heated.

“Did you, really?” he raises his left eyebrow in a skeptical fashion, unfazed by her anger - he’s used to anger, it takes more to impress him. 

“I went to see the pizza bloke, because I thought there might more to it than what he said over the phone,” she says after several hard rubs of her palms over her face and a heavy sigh. “He wouldn’t talk, I threatened to shoot him in the knee, he came to the station to file a complaint against me. Ellie took it and shredded the complaint so no one would ever know. But guess what the little piece of shit told me?”

“Dunno,  _ you’re hot _ ?”

“He did, actually. Tosser. But he also told me a weird bloke stopped him on the road, gave him two hundred quid to borrow the scooter and deliver the pizzas. The delivery boy just sat by the road and had a fag while someone else was knocking on my door. We don’t know who it was, it doesn’t prove much, but at least we know there  _ was  _ someone else. That was enough for me to release you on bail until we learn more. That’s all I can give you, Alec, and I’m sorry.”

“You told me sorries suck, Tyler,” he says with half a smirk, the word a trigger that sparks the memory of the conversation they had a little over two weeks ago. “‘Cause it means… What was it? You feel like shit or something?”

“Because it means you blame yourself,” she corrects him - her voice is calm, now, but heavy with a sorrow and lassitude that makes him feel… 

  
  


Well, sorry. Just a bit sorry. He sees it clearly now. Just how tired she looks, just how overwhelmed and upset she is. She rubbed her face enough to rid her skin of what little make-up she had put on, probably to hide all the signs of exhaustion. The dark circles under her eyes, that are made even more visible by the smeared mascara and eyeliner. The shape of her cheeks, that are a bit more sunken than he remembers. The complexion of her skin, that is a few shades lighter than the healthy peach he remembers. Even her full pink lips have lost their lively colour and her bright whiskey eyes have lost their sparkle. 

 

She’s different. A ghost of the merry young woman he met on that sunny day, at the blue house sitting atop the cliff. A sad ghost that makes it impossible to remember her smile, her laugh. That ghost, it looks as if it’ll never be able to smile ever again. Nor laugh. But that ghost, he knows it. Very well, even. He realizes, looking at her, that he’s sort of looking at himself. Not so long ago, that’s what he looked like. A ghost of flesh floating without aim along the current of time, always at the same pace, always in the same direction. Always alone. Bored, tired, no ambition, no dreams. And that’s a life he wouldn’t wish on anyone, not even his worst enemy. And she’s not his worst enemy, Rose Tyler. Merely… A wishful dream turned sour. Someone he hoped he’d get to spend the rest of his life with, when they’ll only ever be… People who once knew each other. It doesn’t mean that have to be at each other’s throats. It doesn’t mean they have to hate each other. 

  
  


“Don’t blame yourself, Tyler,” he attempts to comfort her - a poor attempt, because he can’t fully chase the angry frustration from his voice yet. “You did what you thought was right, no point in regretting it now.”

“I didn’t do what I  _ thought  _ was right, Hardy. I did what was right. I regret that you’re a suspect, I regret I had to open the case, I regret you’re involved, and I blame myself for not finding anything more than an under-the-table confession of a pizza delivery boy to prove your innocence. But what I did, I had to. I dare you to tell me you wouldn’t have opened the case and suspected me if our places were switched. Tell me you wouldn’t have suspected me if all the evidence you had pointed to me and I had no alibi whatsoever.”

“I’m a cop, Tyler, I have…”

“And what am I, Hardy?” she interrupts, reaching for her badge hooked into her belt so she can shove it against his chest. “A professional clown? I’m a bloody CDI, and in case you forgot, I’ve been on probation ever since you had to go all defender of the oppressed on my first day. If my higher-ups even find out I waited that long to open the case, I’m done for. Being a cop, that’s all I know how to do, Alec. I can’t risk losing my job, or worse, for disregarding a shitload of evidence and failing to respect my oath. So yeah, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry I have to suspect you like I would suspect anyone else. Please, don’t hate me for this, I hate myself enough for the both of us.”

  
  


Oh, yes. She’s the Broadchurch police CDI. She’s so young, he’s been doing this job for so long when she’s barely started, they’ve shared so much more than a professional relationship. It’s still hard to get to grips with the fact that she’s his boss. That she’s a cop. He hates that the person she is suspected him when he thought she was a friend, a lover, a partner, when he thought they could trust each other and understand each other. But he can’t hate the cop she is for just doing her job. He hates it, but she’s right. He’s a suspect. It doesn’t matter if Rose doesn’t believe he did any of those things, it doesn’t matter what Rose thinks or feels. Tyler has evidence. And Tyler has no other choice but build her case on the evidence she has. He can’t hate her for that. He would have done the same. Probably.

 

She has enough to lock him up for good, and he’s still out here. She released him on bail when she could kick his arse into a cell. She said she wanted to go home. With him. She’s trying. It looks like… She can’t quite find the balance between treating him as a suspect, like she should, and treating him as a partner, like she wants. Well, fuck. That must be tough. 

  
  


“Fine, what do you want from me, then?” he asks as he hands her her badge back, thinking that if he doesn’t want to help Tyler, maybe he can try and help Rose.

“Work with me, not against me, Alec. That’s all I’m asking. Let me help you, yeah?”

“Do you really want to help me, though? I mean, so far…”

“So far I’ve done everything I could to keep you out of prison, Alec,” she answers - yes, she did, because he’d already be in prison if she hadn’t, and fuck, she  _ really  _ wants to help his sorry arse. “If I didn’t trust you and if I didn’t handle the case, you’d already be behind bars. I used every juridistical loopholes I could find and cheated with the dates and times so I could release you on bail starting today. ‘Part from Ellie and I, no one knows you’re a suspect. You have no idea how much work I put into this. I know it doesn’t sound great, bail with conditions, but right now that’s best I can do. I’m taking risks for you, Alec. I don’t expect you to be grateful, because there’s nothing generous about trying to pull you out of the pool of shit  _ I  _ had to throw you into. Just let me help you. Let me try to fix this. Let’s work together, please.”

“Wait,  _ conditions _ ?” he frowns - he wants to answer that he will help her, because now he understands better and he’s willing to accept the situation, but that word just caught his ear.

“Nothing insurmountable, Hardy, especially since you can’t go far and do much with your foot. So, will you let me help you?”

“Aye, I will, but… Hey, what’s this, Tyler?”

  
  


She tries to pull on her sleeve and hide the skin she revealed, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. Yes, he’s still very cross, very disappointed with her and he doesn’t think he’ll like her as much as he liked her a couple of weeks before she destroyed him, ever again. But still. He understands a bit what she’s going through. He understands a bit she never meant to destroy him. He supposes he still likes her a bit, likes her enough. Or maybe it’s just that he’s always cared about people, even the worst of them. It just wouldn’t feel right  _ not  _ to care. Especially since, now, he understands she cares about him - in her own way, yes, not the way he would like her to care, but she cares. 

 

She did protect him. She did help him. It’s just hard to see it when all the good she’s done for his own benefit is lost among this torrent of shite. She didn’t extinguish the fire, she just controlled it. Better than letting it grow into an inferno that would burn everything down on its wild spread and still, hard to see any improvement. It doesn’t mean she’s not doing anything. It only means he can’t see it. An invisible benevolence. He knows it’s there. He can’t see that yet, but it’s there. Rose protects him. Rose cares about him. And if they can’t be the partners they were not so long ago, maybe they can just be sensible people who care about each other.

 

He takes her trembling fingers into a gentle, careful hold, and he tugs the sleeve of her oversized jumper up her arm. His fingertips hover over the skin that looks nothing like the pale and smooth expanse only streaked by a few nacre scars he kissed once. Red, blue, green, purple. Bruises and shallow lacerations. Crimson lines running through a myriad of colours and shades, a morbid rainbow that ranges from light yellow to almost black. He doesn’t like it. He cares about her. And he doesn’t like it.

  
  


“What happened, Rose?” he asks, and he knows he’s finally softened a bit when he uses her first name, when he hears his voice lose its sharp edges.

“Nothing,” she shakes her head, hurrying to pull the sleeve back down and fiercely ignores his concern. “I’m fine, Alec, it’s nothing.”

“It’s not  _ nothing _ , Rose. What happened to you?”

“Can we talk about it at home, please? I promise I’ll tell you, just… When we’re home, okay?”

“Aye, okay. Just… This hasn’t got to do anything with me, right?”

“No. No it hasn’t. Let’s just go home, yeah?”

“Aye, let’s. And I will try to help you, Rose. I suppose… I’m not as cross with you as you think. Or as  _ I _ thought, for that matter.”

“Thank you, Alec. I appreciate that.”

  
  


He only shrugs and pretends not see her small smile, not to feel the small rub she gives his shoulder. 

 

It seems she forgets she needed to make a detour by the station, because twenty minutes later she’s parking by the white picket fence of her house - no, he can’t say  _ their home _ , not now, maybe not ever again. He notices the front door has been replaced. 

  
  


“Changing the lock, that was useful,” he points out as she takes out a bunch of keys from her pocket and proceeds to unlock the four locks.

“You weren’t here, and I…” she starts, throwing him a sheepish glance. “I didn’t feel safe without you. I wanted a door that couldn’t be kicked open or picked. Come on, let’s get you settled in the bedroom.”

  
  


His crutches click as he enters the house, but he has to stop after just a couple of steps. Everything looks different. The old furniture has been traded for brand new one, the walls have been repainted, the flooring has been changed, the old decorations are all gone. It looks… Nice. Much nicer than before. Modern, lively. Comfy. He would have thought the white would feel too much like the hospital room he’s just left, but the frames, the little flowers and the hints of colours dotted around make it all… Nice. Really nice. But surely, she can’t have done all of that by herself over two weeks, can she?

  
  


“Like I said, I didn’t sleep much since you were away,” she explains - she must have seen his mild surprise and heard his unspoken question. “Had to keep my hands and my mind busy. I prepared a bedroom for you, downstairs. I didn’t think you’d like having to climb up and down the stairs with those crutches. And I thought… Well… Nevermind.”

“You thought what?” he insists, following her into the small bedroom he remembers from the first night he spent there.

“You know what, Alec. I royally fucked up the chance I had to be happy with you, and I thought you’d never want to share a bed with me again.”

“ _ Thought _ ? Didn’t what happened make it clear enough we’re done?”

“It… Did. I just hoped… Nevermind, Alec, alright? I had a second bathroom built, just through that door. It was some kind of dressing room I don’t need.”

“What were you hoping for, Rose?” he asks, not even hearing the last part of her sentence. “Were you hoping… I don’t know, I’d come back here and pretend nothing happened? Come back home with you and pretend everything’s fine and dandy?”

“I wanted to hope I hadn’t lost you, Alec. I know I have, I know we’re done, I know you’re not here because you want to, and I know I’m the bitch who’s making your life a nightmare. But I hoped. ‘Cause it fucking hurt to know I had to ruin the very first relationship I had with a man I didn’t have to pretend to fall in love with.”

“Don’t say that, Rose, don’t use that word. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t fall in love with someone you’ve known for a few days.”

“You’re right, I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s not like anyone ever loved me, or like I’ve ever loved anyone before. But you were different. And I just hoped. Now sit down, I have something for you.” 

  
  


He wants to protest, opens his mouth, but she’s already gone through the door. Jesus. Did she really say she was falling in love with him? He hopes not. Because if she did, it’s only going to make everything much worse. Because, and fuck that hurts, he truly thinks he was falling in love with her, too. They were falling in love with each other. This woman could have been… Everything he’d ever need. Someone who supports him. Likes him. Someone who can handle his mood swings. Comfort him and reprimand him. Someone who finds him attractive. Someone who hugs him and kisses him. Someone who can love him for who he is. Rose could have loved him better than anyone else. And he could have loved her. He thinks. No, not  _ thinks _ . He  _ knows  _ he could have loved her.

 

It infuriates him. That life once again took all the best things that happened to him and tore them all to pieces. 

  
  


“Are you sure you don’t need medicine?” she asks when she comes back - she obviously looks concerned by his contorted features, only she doesn’t know it’s anger more than pain.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, propping his crutches against the bedside table before he plops down on the bed. “What is you have for me then? More evidence I need to explain?”

“No, not evidence,” she shakes her head, looking down at the thick folder she’s holding. “I mean, could be evidence, but I thought… You needed this more than I do. I told you I couldn’t sleep much when you were away, and… I made good use of all that spare time.”

“Putting furniture together and doing some paint job? Aye, I noticed that already.”

“Yeah, well, I might have done something else.”

  
  


She carefully hands him the folder, but he doesn’t know what’s inside and he doesn’t dare open it yet. She sits down next to him, folds her hand over her knees, gives him a small, quivery smile.

  
  


“I know it broke your heart that you lost them,” she says with a pointed look at the folder. “I didn’t think I’d ever find them, but I had to try. Took me a few days and two warrants to shut all the recycling centers from around here down. I guess we were lucky the wanker has an eco-friendly spirit. I found them in a ton-heavy pile of other papers. I’m sorry they’re a bit rumpled and dirty, and maybe some are missing, but at least… That’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

  
  


He flips the folder open, and he stops breathing. Rose did that. Rose found them. Because Rose cares, and that’s the best proof she could have found. She bloody cares.

 

He swallows his tears and an odd squeaky sound echoes low in his throat. They’re here. They’re all here. A few traces a mud and dirt here and there, a ripped corner, some folds and creases that weren’t there before. But they’re all here. From the bright pink and blue handprints on a piece of white cardboard and the stickman on a small piece of paper, to the post-it that says  _ Gone to the gym. Be back at 5. Love you _ , to the latest Father’s day card printed with a cartoonish dog. They’re all here. 

  
  


“Are you alright, Alec?” she asks softly - she puts her hand over his knee, maybe he should swat it away, but he can’t.

  
  


He twines their fingers over the same knee, his other hand find the side of her neck. He shouldn’t do that. They’re done. They can’t. But in that moment, all he can see is her, his Rose, the Rose who cares, the Rose who always does her best to try and make him feel better. She’s not a cop, right now. She’s not the woman who arrested him and yelled at him and made him feel like shit. She’s the woman who could have loved him, and the woman he could have loved back. The woman who found his treasure and gave it back to him.

 

He bends towards her, squeezes her fingers. He shouldn’t, they’re done, it’s over, they can’t. But he kisses her lips. Just one, tender, slow kiss that doesn’t last long because she doesn’t kiss him back, too scared, too shocked, too hesitant, because he’s just told her they were done and she must know they shouldn’t. But he kisses her.

 

_ God, does it really have to be over? _

 

* * *

 


	28. Hen & Chicks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Finally, a new chapter for this story!  
> I'm afraid this one, as well as the next, are rather dialogue-heavy - lots and lots of things to explain (although is it really relevant to the case... not so sure!)  
> Sorry about the angst - I'll do my best to add some fluff, as soon as I can!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it , thank you very much for reading this! :)

* * *

 

 

The lights are blinding. Just one step outside, and they all turn on at once. White. Bright. He hears the alarm echoing somewhere inside. So, she knows.

  
  


“Fuck.”

  
  


He mutters to himself, wishing he could get at least one minute, a single minute of tranquility. Alone, in silence, in the dark. Is it really too much to ask? One minute, one single minute to gather his thoughts, go over everything that’s happened, think about what to do next, think about whether there’s anything he can do at all. Probably not much. He’s been released on bail. He’s on the other side of the fence, now. No gun, no badge, no power. Mangled foot, shite heart, disastrous mood. No freedom. No, definitely not much he can do.

 

After his divorce, he came to think women only brought trouble with them. Rose takes the cake. The more he thinks about it, the less he doubts. Rose Tyler is involved, one way or the other. He’d lived a quiet life before she moved here. Boring, yes, slow and uneventful and lonely. But safe. A quiet and monotonous life has this one advantage - a great advantage, a bloody formidable advantage. Certainty. The certainty that each day would be the same, the certainty that the slow path that would lead to his death wouldn’t be strewn with obstacles he couldn’t overcome, the certainty of the expected. Going to work, going to bed. Bored but free. Tired but peaceful. 

 

He’s not free, now. He’s not peaceful either. He doesn’t need to go to work the morning later, so he doesn’t need to go to bed either. He couldn’t find sleep anyway. He tried. Slipped under the cold sheets she didn’t have time to wash and still smelled a lot of plastic and chemicals. Tossed and turned on the brand new mattress that was hard and stiff, uncomfortably so. Too much worry on his mind and too much anxiety on his stomach. Too much pain, too. The pills aren’t working the way they’re supposed to, and his foot hurts, his head hurts, his heart hurts. God he misses his dull life.

 

He props his crutches against the wall, hops on one foot to the three-step stairs that lead to the front door, balances his weakened and painful body against the railing before he sits down on the porch. He stays still for a moment, until the lights die and darkness swallows him. Maybe she’ll understand and leave him alone. He slowly reaches into the pocket of the bathrobe he shrugged over his shoulders - it’s too small, awfully pink and fluffy, bears this girlish smell of raspberry softener, but at least it shields him from the gentle breeze coming from the sea. He takes out the pack of cigarettes he bought, what is it, a little over a week ago, and the crap lighter that requires several attempts before it can produce a flame. 

 

He still doesn’t like smoking. He shouldn’t smoke. The doctor said something about thin blood and clogged arteries. He brings the cigarette to his lips, lights it, draws on it, swallows the smoke instead of inhaling it, coughs. Jesus, he hates this. Why is he smoking? He doesn’t know. Keeps his thoughts busy, probably. Or just empties his head. He looks at the shapes of the smoke aerily floating up before his eyes, backlit by the moonlight piercing through the few sparse clouds. He can’t believe, even for a second, that some people can read anything in that kind of smoke. Imagine stories. That some even pretend they can read the future in the curls and swirls of white. There’s nothing more to see than abstraction. Meaningless. Just like the act of smoking itself, he believes. Meaningless. Meaningless to him, but maybe some people can get something out of this harmful ritual. He certainly wishes he could. He envies those colleagues he sees after work, rushing out of the station to fill their lungs with poison, sighing in relief and smiling in satisfaction as they feed their addiction and soothe their cravings. 

 

But as he smokes -  _ tries  _ to smoke - he can’t feel any relief or satisfaction, and his face is as tense and frowny as it was moments ago.

 

He grimaces when he hears the door click open behind him. There she is. He prays to the God he doesn’t believe in that she won’t mention the awkward kiss. He apologized, of course, a half-hearted apology because part of him had wanted to kiss her. It only made it even more awkward. They haven’t talked since. Just a quick and clumsy attempt at conversation, when she asked what he wanted for dinner - he answered  _ nothing  _ and retreated to his bedroom. 

 

She doesn’t speak, at first. She lets her presence known, clearing her throat and closing the door with a bit more noise than strictly necessary. He lets her know he heard, shuffling on the side to give her some space should she want to sit down next to him. She does. She keeps her distance, gluing her knees together and folding her arms over her chest.

  
  


“Can I borrow a fag?” she asks, her breath perturbing the thin tendrils of smoke that come out of his mouth.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” he says as he opens the pack, tugs on a cigarette and hands it to her.

“Could say the same,” she shrugs - does she have to warp her warm and soft fingers around his wrist when he brings the lighter to her cigarette? “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

  
  


They remain silent for some time after that exchange. Maybe because he has nothing to say and she hasn’t either. Maybe because he has too much to say and she has, too. Whatever words they would have wouldn’t exactly be light-hearted and conversational anyway. And, like he told her on the day they met, Alec Hardy doesn’t do conversations. Not aloud. Sometimes he imagines conversations in the confines of his brain, tries to figure out where they would lead, how they would end, for long minutes, sometimes hours. But right now, his brain is empty. Maybe because of the cigarette. Or thanks to the cigarette. Whichever. He doesn’t do conversations. 

 

They remain silent long enough for the rest of his cigarette to consume itself to ashes, because he hates smoking and the taste of it is already too heavy on his tongue, too thick in his throat. They remain silent until she smiles, then giggles, then laughs, proper laughter, merry and loud in his ears. They’re both completely bonkers now, then. 

  
  


“Sorry,” she apologizes, lips pinched as if she’s trying to prevent another fit, her hand daring to rub the length of his arm. “‘S just… Pink kinda suits you. I did get you a grey one that should fit you, though. Didn’t you see it, in the cupboard?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be wearing this,” he answers a bit more gruffly than he intended, pulling on the fluffy sleeves in a vain attempt to make them longer. “If you hadn’t moved here, maybe mine wouldn’t have burnt in an arson that destroyed my home.”

  
  


_ Fuck _ . That sounded rude, even to him. Not just rude. Awfully blunt and sharp. He didn’t mean to hurt her, but the way her face falls and her shoulders slouch, the way her mouth quivers and her fingernails scrape her knees, it shows she’s hurt. Deeply hurt. He didn’t mean to hurt her. The both of them are hurt enough already. And he’s decided, he thinks, that he’s willing to forgive her. He wants to forgive her. And wanting to forgive her can’t go with throwing rude and blunt comments she doesn’t really deserve at her face.

 

Because he’s not exactly angry with her anymore. Part of him is, probably. But the more he thinks about it, the less he can remember why he’s angry. Oh yes, he’s angry -  _ furious  _ \- at the whole shitstorm ravaging his life. But can he blame her? She seems desperate to help him. She did find a way to release him, even if only on bail. She did find one piece of evidence that could prove his innocence - a very small piece of a thousand-piece puzzle, but it’s a start. She did set up a whole bedroom for him, hoping he would stay with her, at  _ home _ . She said she wanted to love him. Jesus. That’s a word he hasn’t heard in a long time.  _ Love  _ and  _ Hardy  _ have become quite the antithesis. He thought no one would ever tell him that word again, he thought he’d never get to say it again. And here he is. With a woman who  _ wants  _ to love him. She said so, didn’t she?

 

And he kissed her, albeit without giving it too much thought. That must mean something. That must mean part of him, the bigger part, still wants to give the both of them a try. The circumstances aren’t exactly appropriate for that kind of romantic ventures. But trying would be about the only good thing that could come out of that whole shitstorm. He wants to forgive her. He wants to try. He bloody wants something, someone to hold on to so he won’t fall any deeper in that bottomless pit of despair carved into dung.

 

So, he takes a deep breath, sighs, rubs his eyes and opens his mouth to apologize.

  
  


“You’re right,” she whispers before he can speak - oh, bollocks, now he’s made her cry, well done Hardy, as if they haven’t cried enough for the past week and a half already. “Everything… Everything is my fault. Your house, your foot, your guilt. It’s all my fault. Alec, I… I have no words. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“So what, you set my house on fire?” he tries to smile and soften the atmosphere, searching his pockets in case a pack of tissues is hidden in there - when he doesn’t find any, and, Jesus he really shouldn’t do that because he wants to try but he doesn’t want to try  _ right now _ , he brushes her hair back and wipes her tears with the pad of his thumbs. “You shot me? Kicked my skinny arse into a prison cell?”

“No, but…”

“There you go, Tyler. Not your fault. Blame the psycho who’s doing that to us.”

“What if I think I know who the psycho is, Alec?” she asks softly, toying with a loose thread of his jumper. “Wouldn’t that make me guilty?”

  
  


His hands leave her face and the small smile he managed to put over his face disappears.

  
  


“What?” he snorts, almost chuckles, one very unhappy and dry chuckle. “Sorry,  _ what _ ?”

  
  


Surely he heard that one wrong. No way she knows who’s making their life so miserable. No way she knows who’s tearing what little’s left of his pathetic existence apart. She would have told him. He never would have been a suspect, they could have worked together to find them, they could have done so much more than investigate dead fish and chicken.

 

Does she really know? If she does, and he already knows because his fingers are tightly clasped over his knees so he won’t be tempted to, chances are he’s going to strangle her on the spot. He bloody hopes she doesn’t. He wants to forgive her. He wants to try. Please, don’t let her say she’s known all along. Please, don’t let her ruin the little hope and the little kindness he’s managed to gather.

 

He watches as she rolls the sleeve of her pyjama top up her forearm. Even in the dim light the bulb screwed above the door sheds over the porch, he sees them, and he remembers she was supposed to tell him about them. The nacre scars that shine and draw sharp shapes over her pale skin. The scratch marks, some red, some purplish, drowned in a rainbow of small bruises. He wants to forgive her. He wants to try. He wants to care about the woman who cares about him.

 

He takes her hand, carefully brushes his knuckles over the marred skin, and a twinge of sympathy makes his heart clench in his chest.

  
  


“You said I didn’t have anything to do with this, Rose,” he says softly, letting go of her hand when she wants to pull her sleeve down her arm. “Has it got anything to do with the letter you got? With those names?”

“Nabwi and Adedayo, Alec,” she sighs and she wraps her arms around herself and slowly, shyly, as if she’s scared he’s going to push her away, leans against his side. “They’ve got everything to do with this. They might’ve got everything to do with what’s happening.”

  
  


He feels her shiver against him, and because he wants to care, he pulls her closer to him and rolls an arm around her shoulders.

  
  


“I’ve been…” she starts after a deep intake a breath, stops, breathes in again, sniffs, swallows, then try again - he has a feeling it won’t be easy, and he makes a mental note to keep his voice calm and soft for the rest of the conversation. “I’ve been suffering from PTSD for about four years. Because… Because of what happened. I didn’t tell you, ‘cause I was better, and you… You helped, a whole lot. I know… I know it sounds like I used you or something, but Alec, I promise…”

“Hey, no, I don’t feel like you used me, Rose. It’s alright, aye? What happened, then? Can you talk about it?”

  
  


She shakes her head, that probably means  _ no _ , leans further against him, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, nods, that probably means...

  
  


“Yeah, I can, yeah, it’s just… Hard. I mean, I’m not supposed to talk about it, but it’s you, and… I just… You deserve to know, because I shouldn’t have… I knew you couldn’t have known about Adedayo and Nabwi, and yet I… I just lost it, Alec. These words, they were like triggers, and I hadn’t taken my meds in the morning ‘cause I was too worried about you and I forgot, and I was tired and stressed out and… I’m sorry I tried to hurt you, I’m sorry I blamed you, Alec, I knew you couldn’t have known and…”

“Hey, Rose, relax, deep breaths, aye?” he tries to soothe her, running his thumb over her mouth to stop the incessant flow of words tumbling down her lips. “Take you time, we’re not in a hurry. Why don’t you just start at the beginning?”

“Right, yes, well,” she says, still fiddling with the hem of his jumper, picking at the loose thread - he thinks she might tear a hole, but he doesn’t really mind. “So, about four years ago, my mentor decided to take me on a big operation to celebrate my twenty-second birthday. It was my first big secret operation, and I was really excited. I prepared the mission for more than two months. Maps, people, equipment, plan, I had everything ready to the last detail. The MI had received intel about a group of mercenaries abducting kids to sell them as sex slaves, and we knew where they were hiding. It was… Nigeria. A small village in the middle of nowhere, just a few huts and barely a dozen of families.”

“And the village, that was Nabwi, wasn’t it?” he asks, squeezing her hand tighter when she winces at the word. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it was,” she nods - there, one hole in his jumper, probably a second on the way. “We were involved, because three of those mercenaries were British nationals. Our contact was called Adedayo. That’s the name.  _ Adedayo _ . We met three days before the launch of the operation. He told us everything about the location, the terrain, drew us a map of the village, about the routine of the mercenaries, about when would be the best time to carry out the plan. We had everything ready. It should have been an easy operation. The villagers were supposed to be gone. Adedayo told us he’d send a message to them, saying they needed to evacuate. He also told us the mercenaries only had small weapons, Sauers and Glocks, you know, your basic handgun. But… It was a setup.”

“So, Adedayo was…”

“A snitch and a liar. He’d been working for the group for a few months already. So when we moved, half past midnight, the group already knew we were coming. It was… It was a  _ massacre _ , Alec.”

  
  


He never quite believed in all those grand phrases people liked to use to describe those who suffered from PTSD - like, to see the traumatic scene in the depth of their eyes and all that stuff about the past reflected on their faces. Seriously, they make it look like it’s possible to  _ watch _ the scene like it’s some kind of cheap Z movie or something. Nonsense.

 

But he sees her face now, even if there’s not much light to properly discern each of her features. There’s no such scene to watch, but - and that’s unfortunate - his imagination has no trouble creating images that leave him uncomfortable. Of course he doesn’t know what happened. But he knows her eyes, and right now, they’re nothing like the eyes he remembers. The tears don’t make them much different. He doesn’t like the tears, but they’re not what makes her eyes so… Just  _ different _ . 

 

Her eyes, they’re probably one of the first things he fell in love with. Right from the start, when she welcomed him on the day they met. Saying that they sparkled is a rather shite metaphor - and he’s never liked metaphors anyway. But he remembers how lively they were, quickly moving, flying from the left to the right, up and down, widening when she raised her eyebrows, being reduced to small slits when she squinted at him or laughed. Light brown pupils lined with a golden shimmer that only appeared when the sun fell over her face. Long lashes thick with mascara, so much of it some had smeared above and under her eyes, lashes that fluttered with each blink. Beautiful eyes. Full of life. Full of joy. He loved her eyes then. He doesn’t love them as much now.

 

There’s no scene reflected in them. No. Nothing is reflected in them. Empty. Dark. Just staring at the hole she picked with her nails into the meshes of his jumper. Dripping with tears. No mascara or eyeliner to emphasize the brown of her pupils - it’s a dark, dull brown , now, in which he can’t see the intricate maze he could have gotten lost into on that first day. 

  
  


“We… We had barely stepped into the village that the bullets rained. They had assault weapons, automatic rifles. We weren’t prepared for that. I… I hate saying this, but I… I was the only survivor. Ten, Sun and Drac, they died. Ten and Sun on the spot, one bullet to the head, one to the neck. Drac died two days later, septicemia. Ten saved me. He died trying to cover me. Everyone died, Alec. It was a bloodshed.”

“Jesus, Rose, I’m so sorry…” he sighs, rubbing tight circles over her back - it’s always made him feel uncomfortable, comforting people, it’s always been hard for him to find the right words, but he wants to try. “And here I thought MI agents were only supposed to spy on people.”

“We are supposed to be spies,” she nods, still tugging on the loose thread of his jumper - he has a feeling he’s going to end up with a ball of knitting wool if the conversation goes on for more than ten minutes, but again, he can’t mind. “Kind of. The mission, it wasn’t a search and kill operation. We were only meant to find them, confirm their location and gather enough intel for the armed forces to move. We were just a recon team. That’s why… Partly why my teammates died. We didn’t have that much equipment, only small guns and light bulletproof jackets. Not enough to stop a dozen of people armed with assault rifles and grenades. We weren’t prepared for that.”

“I hate to ask, Rose, but…” he starts, mindful of the words that come out of his mouth, but he knows there’s no elegant way to ask what he wants to ask. “How did you survive? How did you escape?”

“I didn’t escape. I killed those that remained. Five of them. I took cover behind one of their cars to reload. They kept firing at me even though they should have seen they would never shoot me. That’s when I figured out… Those people couldn’t be the mercenaries. The couldn’t aim, they wasted ammo, they didn’t hide. They didn’t speak English.”

“Fuck… They were the villagers, weren’t they?”

“Remember the hen and the four chicks stamp on my letter?”

“I do, aye. Why?”

  
  


She managed, more or less, to keep most of the tears at bay. Until now. She cries. Not loud, there’s no wail or sob. Just quiet, heavy tears rolling down her cheeks in a steady stream, down her nose, pearling at the tip of her chin before they all drip and soak the wool of his jumper. She’s stopped pulling at the loose string, because her fingers tremble too much, and because it seems she’s unable to decide what to do with the dissident fingers he clasps them, hard, between his own. 

 

He believes,  _ that’s it _ . She’s going to say something that’s going to shed a much brighter light on everything that’s happening. She’s going to tell him the worst of secrets, the deepest and darkest, the unconfessionable truth. Who’s after her. Who’s after  _ them _ . Because he knows, willingly or not, she’s the missing link. He was right. He’s sure of it, now. Because he wants to forgive her, because he wants to try, he’s not going to say it’s her fault. He’s just going to say…  _ You made a mistake and we can fix it, together.  _ Something like that. Something that wouldn’t bury her alive under shame and guilt and remorse. But he sucks with words, because he doesn’t do conversations. Maybe he won’t say anything. 

 

They’re odd, these mixed feelings. He’s not used to mixed feelings. Usually, his feelings are quite clear-cut - sometimes, it’s anger mixed with annoyance, or compassion mixed with sympathy, but he almost never feels diametrically opposite emotions at the same time. But this time, he feels it. The terror in his heart, the fear that she’s going to say something he won’t be able to forgive, the worry, the sorrow when he looks at her tear-streaked face and wishes he could take some of her pain off her shoulders. 

 

And under that terror, just one thin layer beneath, he feels excited. The thrill of expectation pulsing in his veins, the voice at the back of his head,  _ tell me, I want to know, tell me _ , the relief that’s waiting to explode when he’ll know, he’ll finally know for certain he’s not mad, that he’s not guilty, and everything is happening for a reason, no matter how horrible or awful it might be.  _ Just tell me. _

 

He swallows his groan of disappointment when she gets back to her feet instead of giving him the answer he both dreads and longs to hear, motions for him to follow her back inside. He hurries to scramble to his foot, grabs his crutches and joins her in the now spacious and bright living-room. She’s already opening a folder on the table, a tick folder full of papers and photographs, a big  _ top secret _ stamped on the front. An MI case file. She sifts through it quickly, as if she knows exactly where to look, picks a few photographs and hands them to him. She doesn’t look at the pictures. She just disappears into the kitchen without a word. Still crying in silence.

 

He’s torn between the desire to follow her and make sure she’s alright, and the desire to go through that whole file, read everything, find out everything. 

 

He wants to forgive her. He wants to try. He wants to care about the woman who cared so much about him and got nothing in return for her pains. 

 

He puts the pictures down on the table and reaches for his crutches. His eyes inadvertently fall on one picture. He looks at it. Can’t help but look at the others. He understands why she didn’t look at them. His stomach churns and a quiet curse falls from his lips as he brings a hand to his mouth.

 

Five pictures. Five dead bodies. The first is a middle-aged woman. The four others are boys. The youngest musn’t be more than thirteen. The oldest musn’t be more than sixteen. Villagers, judging by the ebony colour of their skin. Nameless casualties, according to the few words scribbled in red ink at the back of the pictures. One woman, four boys. One mother, four sons. A hen and four chicks.

  
  
  


* * *

 


End file.
